Tucked behind a slip road

fringed by chestnut trees

Middlesex nights were spent

on a bridge over a Burmese river,

in a shower with Janet Leigh

at western saloons

through double doors at the Astoria. 

 

Restaurant above where my auntie worked

back in the day,

forthcoming film clips in frames

tempted us boys to flaunt the censors' warnings

U A or X and even H.

 

Now Mrs Baxter sits in a carpeted lounge

takes tea in a semi swoon from a black lady

drops the spoon

where Norman Bates upon the screen

delivered his blows as mother. 

The receptionist sees on her screen

that several residents are called Gloria

not realizing the apt coincidence

of living at the Astoria.