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.