My father's great passion was gambling
Greyhounds, horses and snooker.
Most nights
Returning from work
And shaving hurriedly
In the kitchen mirror
Above the fireplace
His huge welder's hands would delicately
Stem the flow of blood
With pieces of toilet paper
He forgot to remove.
Like a storm in a teacup
The white soapy clouds in his shaving mug
Turned grey with forecasts and whiskers
As in anticipation
He predicted the evening's gaming
At racetracks with great sounding names like
Romford, Hendon, White City, Wembley.
As a five-year-old in his lunchbreak
Hand in hand,
We would descend
The three flights of glistening stairs
Below Burton's
The gentleman's bespoke tailors,
Into the sweet sickening smell
Of piss and disinfectant
That ran in riverlets
From the overflowing urinals
Into a sea of cigarette smoke,
Brylcreem, and unwashed bodies.

On my stool
High in the darkness
I would watch the streetlife ballet
In wonderment
As Billy Boarshead, Frankie Limbo, and
Mad Max Muller
Who would eat a lightbulb
For the price of a cup of tea
Or a cheese roll
Did their thing.
Where illuminated faces watched
Through clouds of steam
Cues chalked
Coins tossed onto bright green baize
As victors and losers exchanged fortunes
And Curly, the one-legged marker
Was paid in silver and tea.
Up there on that stool
Mumblings and murmurings
Mingled with the clip-clopping
Of high heels on the pavement above,
Another game began
Balls were racked
147 became possible
And that familiar childhood sound
Of ivory balls clicking
To majestic touch
Played its hypnotic tune
As Billy Boarshead
Strutted his stuff
And the dance continued.........