We called him uncle, but a friend he was,
And from his estate inherited
My first clock radio.
He smoked, and in all that was his,
Tobacco fumes remained.

The radio must once have been
The state of the art.
A digital display was rendered
Using flipping number panels.
Like a Hitchcock film it told the time.

On this device, after much tuning,
I found Radio 2. And there it was,
To dulcet Irish tones I would awake,
Only half aware of what was said,
But music well remembered.

Now I am thirty-eight, and upstairs
Sleeps a five month baby boy.
I listen for the last time
To the same familiar voice,
And I remember, sad from my remembered bed,
Feelin’ Groovy, Leo Sayer,
Mr Po-wo-wostman.