Leith Road Emporium of Wonders

They huddle as a landscape;
liverish skin toned icons of a post war haze
balanced on a pink tea trolley.

Wheeled lowloader of circumstance,
culture folded away at ease, for storage.

Past pushed, perhaps, by great aunts,
whiskered, pinnied ghosts
dancing to a nineteen fifties dream tune.

You shall have goods:
be a domestic princess.
You shall have time:
be a domestic courtesan.
You shall have status
in the skyline you create,

on formica worktops.

Clustered here, yellowed bakelite of yesteryear
they claim heritage, for a new age,
raging for alternatives to furnish
a staged lifestyle.

Flyers still flutter
across the Atlantic.