The Commercial Traveller

by Clive James and Pete Atkin

Home early from a meeting of the reps
He leaves the cream-bath samples in the car
A pull-along gorilla guards the steps
Confusion leads to where the children are
At the sandpit
In the garden

He wades into the kitchen through the toys
His wife leans to kiss him with a smile
And neither knows how much distance led to this
How long the while
Since on the sand spit
In the morning
The hero
Lay asleep
Until The nymph adored him

The early dawn was baby-lotion pink
And softer than the suds of Infacare
She laved him of his brine and saw him blink
He woke to see the sunburst in her hair
And be her captive
Always

He hails the children playing in the sand
He solves the padlock on the garden shed
A giant bow should be waiting for his hand
But there instead
Lie all the implements
Of duty
For centuries
Employed
By the prisoner
On his island

He plants the hose and sets the nozzle fine
Embellishing his roses with the spray
And rainbows of a sea as dark as wine
On which he will never sail away
He will never sail away
He will never sail away