Geoffrey poems part

 Geoffrey Cradles a Baked Potato

Geoffrey cradles a Wendy's baked potato in his hands

and, for some reason, thinks of England.

He remembers the bus rides

from Stourport-on-Severn to Birmingham,

with his father to visit the museum,

only to find it closed.

He remembers walking by the huge German bomb

still stuck,

fins up,

unexploded,

in the cracked concrete sidewalk,

protected now by a metal fence.

He remembers his naive disappointment

that the bomb hadn't exploded,

or,

that the museum had still not been repaired

and opened to the public.

But,

at nine years old

his disapointment was easily assuaged

by a bag of hot brazier-baked potatoes,

and a paper wrapped pinch of salt

to dip them in.

Geoffrey will eat his Wendy’s baked potato

as he stares aimlessly out the window at reflections

of his past, present and perhaps his future.

He is nine years old, or ninety.

He hopes the museum will be closed

the next time he comes,

bomb or not.

He likes the spuds, but,

he hopes the bomb will be gone.