Where are they now, these people who loved me?
One of them is dead and the other might as well be.
He died early and she’s waiting for the devil to ring her.
I don’t think of them often, but these memories linger.
Six foot five, full of Guinness and fight.
Five foot four, full of vinegar and spite.
Belligerent bully with fists of iron.
Constant critic without a shoulder to cry on.
These things were normal to a six year old boy.
Long distance Dad on jobs shifting steel.
Driving his Volvo, almost asleep on the wheel.
Missing Mum on part-time shifts at the local.
Tending drunks on her own, getting angry and vocal.
These things were normal to an eight year old boy.
Gatling gun volleys of verbal violence
Prolonged periods of insidious silence.
Repeated outbursts of furious feuding.
Ensuing intervals of black-hearted brooding.
These things were normal to a ten year old boy.
Acid accusations of adulterous assignations.
Desperate denials of flirtatious fascinations.
Rushed relocation of besotted betrayer.
Lust fuelled lies of a selfish strayer.
These things were normal to a twelve year old boy.
Countless beatings with his belts or their buckles.
Pointless arguments resolved with a slap or his knuckles.
Her off the scene, set up home with her lover.
Divide up the kids setting brother against brother.
Staying out of the house to miss the projected rage.
Stand up for yourself, you’re a man at this stage.
Never show your fear, put away your emotion.
You’re not welcome here, find a place of your own son.
These things were normal to a sixteen year old boy.
Where are they now, these people who loved me?
One of them is dead and the other one should be.
I planned their deaths so many times in my mind.
Putting them out of my misery, to myself I’d be kind.
These thoughts are normal for a fifty year old boy.
Rob J Mann
A runner up in the 2012 Poetic Republic poetry competition.
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