Stark Raving Mad
My father rarely got
angry, preferred
to languish in the
relative high ground
of mocking sarcasm,
rolled eyes and
a sad, sad shake of the
head
as if the stupidity of
man,
or in this case
children,
was utterly beyond
belief.
He was angry when I set
fire to the shed.
I didn't mean to. I
only lit a match to scare away rats
but the floorboard were
shot through with rot,
friable as cotton wool
on a summer evening.
I got a hiding that
day.
He was angry when I
broke a window'
He'd told me not the
throw my ball at the wall,
warned me what would
happen
but I did it anyway.
I got a hiding that
day.
He was angry when I
almost shot him.
For a country without
guns
it's surprisingly easy
to make a cannon
from copper tubing and
basic chemistry.
The stainless steel
ball bearing missed his head by an inch;
had to be dug out of
the door post.
I got a hiding that
day.
He was angry when I was
arrested at fourteen
shoplifting a girlie
magazine
from the newsagent on
the market
couldn't understand why
I was looking at naked women
and me such a good
Catholic and all.
“Are you stark raving
mad?”
He didn't speak again
for a week.
(I forgot to post this on Friday)
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