the more palatable medicine for asthma, Ventolin,
meant your bullet-like suppositories
were a thing of the rude past
one descending puff cleared the airways,
ten naughty puffs took you to the Skylab in space
each week you’d wait your turn for bow-tied
Dr Coyer – instead of sitting you down
to set you straight, he’d gurn as he’d scrawl
on his pad of prescriptions “two puffers”
once when you were leaving the smoke-filled surgery
a Shirley Temple lookalike with curls
about eight, the spit of your years, said
mummy, is that a golliwo–
the mum warmly took you in – no dearie, shush
it occurs to you you’re the town’s darkest lookalike
to that golly young rag doll
from the breed of super-lungs on the Minstrel Show
you and your friends sing along to with hands on chest
croaking a funny accent for mammy, oh mammy
and those bold white lips while dancing
would hold a breathless smile – a smile you hold at your
Shirley Temple who smiles back as if to suggest
a smile is all you’ll ever need
Daljit Nagra’s autobiographical collection, Yiewsley, will be published by Faber in May
Illustration by Chris Riddell
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