Yuke (CTG)

[ChrisGeorge]

Yuke

Yuke, you learned to play chords
on your dad's ukelele strumming

to George Formby uke and croon,
"I'm leaning on a lamppost

at the corner of the street in case
a certain little lady comes by."

The toothy comic actor leered out
between the first licks you played

in your deaf gran's front parlor
amid antimacassars and aspidistras,

a cracked 78 on the gramophone.
Lancs lad, you graduated from uke

to Stratocaster, robust as a black pud—
a plump blood sausage—sounds sweet

as an Eccles cake, raisins and sugar,
you would peal an archipelago of notes.

Smoky northern clubs; morning stale beer
in city jiggers, ciggies on our lower lips

as under a wet sky, we lugged our gear
home. Lads who might have been us

blinked at us and ignored us,
got back to their scratch footer.

Christopher T. George

[ChrisGeorge]

Another rock group poem:

Prees Heath, Summer '68

Our group’s van expires on the abandoned
airbase: a transport cafe proprietor, broken-

nosed, lemon-toothed, force-feeds me coffee.
A sharp stink of Lysol plus Ohio Expresso.

Garth and Pete click dominoes, don't glance up
as I stumble out and puke in the yellow gorse.

Empty runways, camouflage-gray hangars:
heathland stretching in every direction,

ghost Mosquitoes buzz the chickweed cement.
I swab my mouth. Another riff to play.

Christopher T. George