The Terrace

The Thomases at Number 2
had those four kids, youthís depth charge,
and Jerry working bursts and shifts
to get the readies
for the big TV, the gear, the copiousness.

At Number 4, they cultivated Dad.
Adulated. Cringed. Dadís tea, Dadís dinner
and at night, as the television sang celebrity,
Dadís views
on blacks and blondes and bastards.

Sid and Cherie, childless, Number 6,
their rituals ranged on dressers,
packed in lavender.

Grandma, at Number 8, alone,
but visited by her son and Charlotte, six.
A den, with brambled garden,
cupboards stuffed
with coloured shapes and prospects.

When the coach crashed outside,
they all (except for Dad: bad back)
went out to help
with blankets, wiping cuts, hot tea.

Robert Nisbet


If you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet would be pleased to hear from you.

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