You’re always smoking in your house.
Remembering how Jack clipped you by the ear,
In Year 6. He kicked you up good enough,

gave a grin, called you weird. You were born 50.
Ugly ducklings don’t always get any prettier,
Nor do angels always find their wings.

You lit a smoke, and gave a grin at Ma’s funeral.
Put diesel in your Ford instead of petrol.
Burnt the wick at the bottom, not the top,

Angered when your wife was pregnant. You loved
your shitty boss. You loved his forgetfulness,
and not getting paid. You put framed photos

in front of an open fire. You smiled when your
child fell over, she’s only six but she’s learning
how to fail already. Clever.

Birthday banners upside down, and fishes out
of water, you did things very differently.
Not every angel found a pair of wings.

But you’re no angel, really.


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