Lessons in life (Part 2 Smoking kills)

[Keith]

I cut the cricket bat from a plywood sheet,
wrapped tape around its rough handle,
used an old beer crate as a wicket.
The summer had delivered a perfect evening
poised over a memory that set the scene
and started to roll its cameras.

The cliche version would have been filmed
on location in an American suburb,
father and son playing catch on the front lawn
mother filming from the wooden porch,
all fit, white teeth and healthy smiles,
sunlight would glisten off the lens.

But this was a concrete back yard with high walls
and a gate that opened onto broken glass,
Dad was a spin bowler due to the short run ups,
each innings uncoiled him, took its toll.

I began to worry, watching the colour slide
down his face, a novelty pen turned upright
to reveal a naked body.
I pretended to miss, and listened to the clink
of empty beer bottles as the ball clipped the crate
relief shouted, out across his face.

The director wasn't happy wanting to go again
but the star was already leaving the set,
desperately seeking his trailer, exhausted from
his fifteen minutes of acting, it wasn't long
before smoke draped its silk jacket over his shoulders.

We toured with that film, I did all the pro-mo
while he snorted oxygen shipped in cylinders
away from public gaze.

I was asked once what it was like
working with such a professional.
I lied and talked about his better days,
paid tribute behind a filter of blue and green.
I held his hand for the final scene
but couldn't find the words at the after party.

[ellajam]

Fine piece, Keith. Odd the image of America when the actual scene is mimicked here often enough (if you substitute stickball for your cricket ).
While the idea of running memory like a film is common, this poem sunk its teeth in and stayed with it through the very strong last line, well done. Thanks for the read.

[Keith]

Fine piece, Keith. Odd the image of America when the actual scene is mimicked here often enough (if you substitute stickball for your cricket ).
While the idea of running memory like a film is common, this poem sunk its teeth in and stayed with it through the very strong last line, well done. Thanks for the read.

Thank you Ella, yes maybe I was stereo typing a bit, Ha yes extra extended metaphor, just couldn't seem to let go