The Visit

You're on a flying visit;

I take your case - a magic box;

inside is Argyle Street:

the cobbles and coal lorries,

the pigs and midden out back

and mad-dogs muzzling under doors;

the front room still fridge-cold;

a high and raftered attic still hiding us

from the women-full house.

Unpack your suitcase

full of socks and ghosts;

there, under that shirt:

the yard's whitewashed walls

and Sissy's geranium pots

and pantry bowls of semolina;

the outdoor privy and outsized coals,

and further back still:

our girl-mothers calling at doors

in search of "brock" for the pigs.

We shake hands as if

to firm up the here and now.

This is my family, my house,

my baby mother, my father me.