The Small Stockroom in Mothercare, Chichester.

Five, or maybe ten stolen
minutes, wedged on that sunshine soothed
step
between pre-school toys
and plastic baths, breathing in
silent Sunday dust.
Blunted nursery tunes jingle
from the shop floor
through elderly air vents,
patched with green 'Sold' tape.
Midday cathedral bells peal
the theme to 'What's In The Roasting Tin'
and Solent FM
plays the tune last heard
unrecognised, misplaced,
at my sixth-form prom.