A quickish effort this morning in haiku metre, finished just in time to get to a doctor's appointment about my mental health.
The poem is about something my dad used to say. If he ever said it. I know we believed he said it. Here's a photo of my dad taken forty years ago on the occasion our car ate him.
My dad used to say
“I met Bob down the old yard,
Ya know.” Every night.
My brother and I
Listened to that mystery.
We'd make up stories.
Bob became great guru,
Enlightening the people:
Crawley's peacemaker.
Or he was monster.
Boogieman haunting our dreams,
Spoken in hushed tones.
Sometimes he was normal.
Just a co-worker, mechanic,
Technical wizard.
What of the old yard?
Hidden in unknown places
Dad never showed us.
Far too dangerous:
It's where shady deals happened
Smuggling screws, solder.
The forgotten field
Where old machines go to rust
Sharing their stories.
The killing field
Where students who failed exams
Were all executed.
Years later. We asked him.
Who's Bob? Where is that old yard?
Why did you meet there?
A blank expression.
There was no Bob. No old yard.
No dinnertime news.
Self deluded feat:
Though we heard his words each night
We invented them.
Now, perpetrating
A deliberate delusion,
I've led you astray.
There were no stories
No wild child imaginings.
We just laughed at Bob.
Countless meals at table,
Half-listening to parents
We'd made up the words.
Or was dad lying?
Bill Walker was invented.
Too. Then I met him.
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