My Dads Bigger
At the butcher's counter carving meat
your dad in splattered white,
his hat claiming specks of red,
him unable to look past the wax paper
encasing oozing steaks & joints of lamb.
Because my dad stands there,
the order tallies up lighter
the meat heavier, juicier
prime cuts for c-class prices.
Your dad's carcass laurel leaf
a token for a wife turned mistress,
cancelled school vacations
& half-filled photo albums abandoned.
My dad takes the lot, a nod,
slowly counts out change,
a measured click on counter tops.
The package gets tucked under barrelled bicep
& he leaves - the bell a faint tinkle
as the door comes to rest in its frame
Your dad lets go of his belly
His hand reaches to push back
the brim of the mesh cap
sat low on his brow
to watch my dad pack his frame
in the tiny rent-a-car,
a new car-smell air freshener
dangling where the fuzzy dice should be.
If you've any comments on this poem, Heather Taylor would be pleased to hear from you.