Music is my DeLorean travelling
At eighty-eight miles per hour
Taking me to walls of wood panelling
And the constant smell of sawdust.
The hollowness of community radio
Has amateur, nostalgic disc jockeys
Playing backup to the putter of
Dad’s red, rust-riddled Kombi
Williamson rips up woodchips
Miller calls Pennsylvania Six-Five Thousand
I don big sleeves and frills while
Dad drives with his elbows to light his pipe
We arrive to yellow fibro which
Exposes a wilder era
The static of distance disappears
With the final rumble of our arrival “home”
Pavarotti, Diamond, Dusty and Sinatra
Crackle through speakers
With pinpoint precision
As they dance across twelve-inch vinyl
Where kids ride bikes
With no safety attachments
A single-geared chain
Between divorced parents and childhood
A head-over turkey was the prize
As they use their face to stop
With a story to share once back
Amongst family-arity
Timeless inertia
Two days later, the return home
Brings John Laws’ opinionated tones
And Presley movies playing at Midday
While suburban Newcastle sings backup
The music sounds different now
The choir is a rural town
But the DeLorean is always just
A play button away
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