I remember once a birthday when I cried,
about the cheers of ragged parents
pressing hope as all the prizes lied,
I remember once a birthday when I cried,
and broke the ragged hope of those
who struggled to provide,
I remember once a birthday when I woke
to seamless jeans and pleasure spoken
and then proven by the silver tongue,
And underneath a spreading tree
that through the window took a look
and through the winter sunlight, shook.
I remember once a birthday when I woke.
When I was ten or eleven,
My mother had misfortune,
When an old friend died.
We called him uncle, but a friend he was,
And from his estate inherited
My first clock radio.
He smoked, and in all that was his,
Tobacco fumes remained.
The radio must once have been
The state of the art.
A digital display was rendered
Using flipping number panels.
Like a Hitchcock film it told the time.
On this device, after much tuning,
I found Radio 2. And there it was,
To dulcet Irish tones I would awake,
Only half aware of what was said,
But music well remembered.
Now I am thirty-eight, and upstairs
Sleeps a five month baby boy.
I listen for the last time
To the same familiar voice,
And I remember, sad from my remembered bed,
Feelin’ Groovy, Leo Sayer,
Mr Po-wo-wostman.