Beneath the curved trees of Art Nouveau,
along the Modern consciousness of the stream,
remained a hulk of old Art Deco
for the Postmodern me to see.

Seventy years removed now
from the time it first hummed
in a kitchen for its owners
who couldn’t believe what the future brung.

It was the fridge that saw the arguments,
before the kids got home from school,
As the arm from a white-t fished inside
for a beer that was mostly cool.

Now partly buried by the bank,
like a sunken pirate’s chest,
holding an untold treasure
for the boys who’ll come upon it next.

Digging with the finger nails
their mothers will make clean,
while I take note of the countryside
before it all goes green.