Any excuse to hear that Motown sound.
Crocheted socks, no shoes, twirling
to Nan and Grandad’s favourite tunes.
Greeting every Rat Pack uncle with that same
“Do I know you?” stink eye.
You won’t remember me, kid.
They say the same at every funeral.
Counting down with fat, cherub fingers
until it’s just me left.
Now every time I get a hint
of Lambert and Butler,
it’s them I see through the smoke.
All smiling and foaming
like the head of a Guinness.