la petite phrase  Proust

 

Back home and married

after our year abroad,

the heat was on all summer

as mortgage rates

and temperatures soared.

Recording it now,

the memory’s triggered

by the music a DJ plays –

which happens to be

George Benson’s Breezin’,

the track that eased me

into jazz, clocking on

in the council yard

to get one step ahead.

 

And when, a little later,

the kids I taught

were into Punk: outrageous,

pierced and pimpled,

anarchy shaped

the soundtrack

that haunts them today.

 

How strapped for cash

and happy we were,

making the most of things

when a few

bargain records

by Mingus, Miles or Monk

wrecked the monthly

budget and kept us

in the red:

our taps at least

flowing sweetly,

no water bowsers

on our street.