A Pome a Day for a Year

Dad’s van,
Crusty, dusty, white walls coated mud,
tool smell percolating,
visor too high on eyes too low,
sunlight floods
as London passes by.

Dad’s quiet,
late eighties roads,
music warbles through busted
speakers, west end girls,
my brother naps,
windows down, breeze flies back.

Dad’s humming,
I don’t like football,
small stadium, team colours,
little shop full of jawbreakers,
stumbling behind goalies line,
our team wins.

Dad’s happy,
little chef car park,
“Don’t tell mum”
burger treat, glass of coke,
van drives home,
feel connected.