‘What does your father do?’

At university, how that artful question embarrassed me.

In the common-room, coffee cup balancing on cavalry twills

Some bright spark (usually Sociology) would want an answer.

Shame on me, as feigning lofty disinterest, I would hesitate.

Should I mumble ‘docker’ in the hope of being misheard?

(‘There he goes, a doctor’s son, and every inch the medical man.’)

Or should I pick up the hook and throw it down like a gauntlet?

‘Docker. My dad’s a docker.’ A whistle of corduroy.

How about? ‘He’s a stevedore, from the Spanish “estibador”

Meaning a packer, or loader, as in ship.’ No, sounds too

On the Waterfront, and Dad was no Marlon Brando.

Besides, it’s the handle they want not the etymology.

‘He’s a foreman on the docks.’ A hint of status? Possibly.

A touch of class? Hardly. Better go with the straightforward:

‘He works on the docks in Liverpool,’ which leaves it open.

Crane-driver? Customs and Excise Officer? Canteen manager?

Clerk? Chairman of the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board?

In dreams, I hear him naming the docks he knew and loved.

A mantra of gentle reproach: Gladstone, Hornby, Alexandra,

Langton, Brocklebank, Canada, Huskisson, Sandon, Wellington,

Bramley Moor, Nelson, Salisbury, Trafalgar, Victoria.