From the bulk of his double-breasted suit,
Uncle magicked two shiny boxes:
a silver box that struck a fire,
another gold with sticks of fog.
I now know Love for its shucking off
the cellophane without a tear
like a child whose boiled egg shell
once emptied, he turns on its head
and makes that he hasn’t eaten at all –
oh, infinite, infinite, infinite breakfast,
or the child who learning the hours
turns the clock back back back.
For back, back, back then I was the child,
and I was ten, gawping at the ciggies,
all spongy round heads, like missiles,
ready to be fired. I remember Uncle less,
more his fishing with finger and thumb
inside the box’s interior ruff.
He happens on a card, his gift to me;
I barely palm it.
I see it now knowing its value from auctions:
(Front) the Doctor coralled by a throng of spears.
(Back) a block of story text: the Doctor in danger,
the planet in danger, Uncle too,
but that is by the by. I remember his words,
“Don’t say I don’t give you nowt,”
and how he blew smoke rings
like warnings seen from outside the fort.