You were a rugged rock, my first address,
round which the ragged rascals ran.
The sea shore on which Sally sells sea shells.
Eleven Ruthven Road, Litherland, Liverpool.
A minefield of fricatives to stumble across.
What oral gymnastics were required
to avoid the tripwire of those v’s and th’s.
Would a speech defect have rendered me homeless?
Eventually you bit the dust to make way for a flyover,
so this won’t be in the post. But thanks anyway
for being there during my teenage years
when I needed somewhere to go home to.
6 Huskisson Street. Too many s’s, too many stairs
but a fine view of the sea shore and Sally selling herself.
In the kitchen, a grumpy parrot moulted a muted rainbow
of feathers. Occasionally a Beatle dropped by.
Windermere House, Windermere Terrace.
Now we’ve moved up a couple of rungs
and thanks to a flurry of songs, an address
to impress with a title instead of a number.
Your days of gracious living were long over
by the time I could afford to move into you,
but the posh ghosts who passed me on the stair
with their cut-glass moaning, drove me to despair.
Up sticks, rub them together and head for the Smoke,
the inevitable and treacherous defection south.
A midnight flit to a rented flat on the Fulham Road,
a base camp set up for the ascent on Notting Hill.
70 Portobello Road. O those open vowels
O those open mouths on the overdraft
O the Carnival that kept us prisoner
O the house-sitting poet who made off with the silver.
My parents had only two addresses.
Born in a street, they died in a road
a short walk up the hill. I had fourteen,
not counting pit stops and hitching posts.
So thank you addresses both past and present,
including those I’m in no hurry to meet.
Like Journey’s End, The Garden of Rest,
Requiescat in Pacem Street.