The Only Dad at Playgroup

Actually, I’m at an eighteenth-century fair

amongst the bearded ladies

and conjoined twins, regarding this mild-

mannered man refraining from

removing his blue anorak, accepting

tea politely and not hesitating

to whisk up his son to sniff

his bum, visibly doing his best

to ignore the sideward glances

and smoke of curiosity that has filled the room.

I see the man and his boy behind bars,

met with the stares of frocked gentry

and prodded a bit to see if he’ll

reveal the reason why on earth he’s here,

and if, like a medium, he might spill

some existential truths about modern parenting.

Eventually, he cracks – I’m a house husband –

and is instantly wrapped in cloud,

ascended into heaven, and crowned

with stars. Later, a male friend

scoffs and yanks the man down,

casts him back into his cage, reveals

him to an astonished and knowing crowd

as a wife-battered unemployable eunuch.

Only in the twenty-first century

could he possibly be both. Ladies and gentlemen,

it’s The Incredible Only Dad at Playgroup!