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Joe 90

I cross the threshold into another poem
as Grandad's chair rotates clockwise,
head back in the spin,
picture-rail portraits merge
into a single familiar face.

Ornaments and brass carriage clocks
blur streaks of colour
on tobacco brown walls.
Gas fire chrome lights up green
as my brothers hands
slap to increase the speed.

Recovery is only a moment of laughter,
never long enough to breath
before the chair goes anti-clockwise
and time is undone, the transfer complete.
Written by Razzerleaf
Published
Author's Note
the title refers to a 70's tv program
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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