It is here, that thing we feared,
from 1987, the bad news broken,
like the cold morning light flooding
at dawn, thru the mistress’s window-pane.
The sound of it frightening’ like Ma’s gramophone,
with the scratched record, back in ’77, so.
I pulled down and broke the gramophone.
Afterwards, with the music, beautiful/broken,
stopped – ne’er to play again…
We propped up the wooden instrument,
on a drum made of cow skin –
and named it – ‘Decoration.’
Still, there is other, heart-breaking music,
one’s child singing: ‘Jesus loves me, this I know’
you knowing, if I’m not there, Faith,
no one can protect, or love you, the way I do.
Childhood already abandoned, alongside innocence
Like a broken bicycle outside an orphanage
The heart is a broken gramophone –
We no longer care to hear the music
Pain something sinkin
g and soon