Dad writes poetry

Jack, when I was sixteen

I wanted to play football every day

until I was old, thirty-five, or forty.

And at forty

I wanted to buy a house on a cliff

wander to the beach

make love in the sand

then come home and drink all afternoon.

This seemed a good plan for my life.

My teacher said I was being unrealistic

my Mother said I was being stupid

my Dad said I wasn’t that good at football

and my girlfriend didn’t say anything

because I didn’t have one.

So at sixteen

I set off on my plan.

The first game of football

I broke my arm

the first time at the beach

I nearly drowned

the first time I drank lots of beer

I puked

and the first time I made love

I’d rather not say.

So I gave up football

and swimming

although I still occasionally practise drinking

and alone at fifty

making love is not such an issue

although everyone says it should be.

So Jack, when I look back

the only thing that was worthwhile,

apart from having you and Desiree

and falling in love with your Mum,

was writing poetry.

At sixteen I thought poems were for old people

and always about flowers, or death,

or “ducks gliding gracefully across the millpond”

but the only ducks I saw

were in Chinese take-away shops

so I guess I have learnt something

even if it’s taken me

half my life.