Descended from a Line of Legs
Clank; his leg shows its metal
down the pungent antiseptic corridor
whose double once wheeled his flesh one to the fire.
Now he spawns comedy; these are Volvos,
Volkswagens swimming down the aluminium,
garaged by his infant son daily and forgotten.
Veering to some vacant ward, he dismantles
his white consultant self to the buff
paint and straps, to slow scars quickly examined
stumped behind surgical socks, to a child’s Dinky rattle –
of himself years back, embryo memory of his whole.
But it’s his son who’s almost complete, bar squint eyes,
scar tissue he sees to himself; eyes blind
to their blue-chipped reliquaries he’ll now return.
Smiling to anecdote it, he winces rising.
His son will keep missing and forgetting
till he’s only metal and memory. The father
would not see him seed in his hangar leg
what burns his son to fly, late, to the same doctored titles,
limping preferments, not the predicted lyric scrapheap.
But the son’s legs are blocked out, own no magic cavern
to welcome his own infants. Flesh stops with him
who limps like his father with a pint less excuse
who fires steel and sterile children as a fertile offering.
Simon Jenner © 2009