He hit me like a frying pan in the face,
the story of his mother and father
doing the same. Tough muscles coiled
ready for the next predator, small eyes
but quick. Thinning arms awash with story,
meaningful pain inked a once strong bulk.
Can’t sleep unless I’ve had a skinful
his ruddy face flickers. Oscillating fast
between the big man not allowed to cry
and the little boy who chose to survive.
Me dad was an angry boozer, fist marks
through most of the walls. So unsafe
my brother felt, he preferred to steal cars
Prison seems safer than going back home
he loved to say. And taking the medications?
Feeling so low, must be the new meds Doc.
Since the heart attack Doc, they’ve slowed
me right down. Must be the meds, must be.
(as published on BJGP Life on 14/6/24)
Giles Dawnay - writer, poet and GP 