Dinking

Summer seventy-two’s racking
had nursery blue uprights, block board shelves,
and prayed to the far wall,
waiting to swallow its daily snacks.
Back door bell, a screech of wood to floor
and lunch stepped in.
Three hundred Vincent singles,
a hundred Popcorn, and two hundred
Whiter shades of pale, almost Dulux,
all for London’s jukeboxes, June was good.
Shame we hadn’t ordered them dinked.
So the hand stamp, bang, bang, banged
six hundred times, making their holes fit
Seeburg, Rock-Ola, Rota-Rolla
even that superb, rare AMI Deauville!
As we fed each shelf, split each order
we grooved to the latest hits on our Garard 301
jammed in a one-phone office,
behind Shepherds Bush shopping centre.
Python Lee Jackson, In a broken dream, led the way
Metal guru, Lady Eleanor, Rocket man,
we just didn’t care.
And on special days,
after thousands of vinyl dinks
we’d celebrate in our Wimpy bar,
before a brisk, diving browse
through the first Argos.

Jerry Pike