The Divvy

Pneumatic Capsule

Thanks to Pathlost for use of this image.

An end-stop announcement.
A thwumping air-cushioned arrival,
Buffered by more constant background hiss.

In my internal bakery Bread Street
Remains an imagined sliced-pan provider,
An avenue of the jeelie piece perhaps,
But it was also where we would queue.

St Cuthbert took, but gave a little back,
Before loyalty was carded, or
Nectar rendered accountable,
There was The Dividend.

Arriving like manna, a bounty earned and
Expressed from the air, piped from the secret innards
Of Co-Op Central by rapid transit vacuum ducts.

A warranted percentage capsule of cash,
Notes, coins and docket, friction toasted through
The half-baked system of suction delivery:
A limbic original intranet of things.

Some minor cut of this hot haul
Must have been doled to me,
As my palm tells tales of heated coins.
You could still find a grande damme Victoria
On occasional dinner plate pennies,
Her years retouched to pocketable darkness.
Maybe I clutched a thick thruppence or two:
Probably not a bob.

Nickel and copper sore-tooth scents heralded
The ink and newsprint polished shelf brew,
The newsagent currency of comics yet to come.

Memory randomly divvies up kist specifics:
Rubber stopped pod of pipe buffed brass,
The cylindrical windowed pneumatic encasement,
A metallic husk enclosing circular seeds.

But, smudging shut like the twist of
A well worn purse, the veil falls
To silence the familiar voice,
And obscure as well that younger face
Above the hand that held my own.

About stevedsmart

Steve Smart is an information designer, poet and artist. View all posts by stevedsmart

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