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This was included in Misty Mountain Review
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Picnic at Rush, 1954

Eamonmaguidhir_thumbnail_02by Éamon Mag Uidhir03 Nov 2013

All the shiny black cars.
Whitewalled, steel-spoked wheels.
Orange bakelite fingers
And chromium everywhere.
I’m going to have one, black and shiny,
Like Uncle John Martin’s,
When I’m a grown-up man.

On the beach we drive to,
When the road turns right
Between the whitewashed walls,
And there’s sand on the road,
And a brackish waft in the air,
The black cars all line up
Like John Martin’s piano sharp keys
On the smooth white strand.

My swimming togs are knitted,
Tight, soaked, harsh and taut,
Chapping my little thighs
As I whimper and whine with the wind.
But who’s to mind me in the panting din
Of big cousins playing relievio
Across the hard grass of the dunes?