Of Sons and Co. and Ltd.

The slide door, the bandy gait – the inheritance.

Hauling nothing but hauntology,

and the leaden babel

of too many kids to pretend to love equally.

Toughened glass panels

reinforcing the bone zone behind driver’s seat

factotums safe and serene

in a shatterproof surround.

But now even the road studs turn red

as those marmalising matchday manias.

Figments of a flag-flying halcyon flicker

like target fixation on an infinite bend.

Nails and screws rust

and rattle for their steel deliverance.

Beyond the clubhouse cloister,

the birthday bottle bores

and DIY dignity,

awaits a structure fallen to bits.

What strange birds have since

nested in the old treehouse

that came long before the van

and all it took to be a man?