You,

playing slow burning dirty

blues with a matchstick

plectrum. A pouch of

Champion Ruby

and a tallie at your

knee.
You again,

sharking pool

black quiff, brown skin and cold

stare. One eye on the kitty

to pay the power bill.
Here you are,

shirtless, lean

smelling of fresh sweat and petrol

mowing our yard while I hang

from your back licking salt

crystals as they dry in the sun
and here,

Father’s Day morning, still

drunk from a poker game, one eye the colour

of steak, unwrapping the present I’d

made you, with somebody else’s

blood on your knuckles.