Mad for Frank

The chair relaxes him,
It's quite a chair;
they bought it for him fifteen years ago
when he retired.
A book rests on his knees,
a heavy book;
another present from the family
who knew he didn't like to read,
but knew he'd like the history
of Frank, his pillar of celebrity,
the colour of his life.

Each photograph is equal to a time that he can picture
in his own mind's album,
and though they never met,
he always felt on a parallel line.
Harnessed by the sound, fixed by the image,
the old, scratched, labelled song of vinyl,
an afternoon, eyes wide, in the flickering dark,
memorised words stored next to the life he was living,
ready to recall on mark.

He puts the book away
when winter comes;
it's dark too early for such reveries,
they last too long.
Once or twice a week
the pub is his;
he'll be singing almost quietly,
'till gradually the others sing along.
'He's mad for Frank', the landlord tells a stranger;
as the singing swells, he tries to stop a lifetime tear
from drowning out his song.