I’m in love with Al Bowlly
leaning towards a microphone
back when the world was out of money,
moving away, arms curved, spread palms
embracing a woman he shapes
from the recording booth’s hushed air
while he croons to myself alone
Come to me my Melancholy Baby,
each note the ocean at low tide,
the camera also catching
a man at a grand piano,
dark hair parted down the middle
just like Al’s and Rudee Vallee’s
and my father’s, high 1930’s style.
If only I’d known in advance
I would have warned him
to run to the bomb shelter
before the Luftwaffe killed him
in April ’41, but I was barely six,
thought blitz had something to do with snow
and knew only the London of nursery rhymes