A quiet man, unobtrusive;
once tucked in he became invisible.
And though we might occasionally
sink into the worn upholstery,
it was only for my father
the chair agreed to work its special charms,
wrapping him in snug arms
offering safe harbour.

My mother in contrast was everywhere:
perpetual motion, like a fish.
‘Your supper’s on the table.’
‘I think I’ll eat it on my lap,’ he’d reply,
heading for his retreat.

Sundays: the doldrums,
metallic skies of dull chrome.
The family dinner over, I’d sneak out,
leaving him in his usual place,
her for once becalmed, sprawled
on the settee like Eartha Kitt –
watching the box, doped on tedium.

When the cat got in and peed
all over Dad’s chair,
my mother took the excuse
to have the thing thrown out.

That evening, gathered like porpoises,
or sharks around a raft,
we witnessed a rare moment;
akin to a death, or the sighting of land,
when he seemed for once
wholly visible, hesitating –
as if expecting the world to right itself,

before paddling sideways
to the bare rock
where my mother
lay like a siren
in her best Carmen curlers –
waiting.

©2009, Pete Mullineaux

Pete Mullineaux lives and works in Galway, Ireland. This poem is from his collection, A Father’s Day published by Salmon Poetry in June 2008, which has been described by various reviewers as, “tender & lyrical,” “gorgeously resonant,” and “grimly funny,” and has drawn comparisons with Brian Patten and John Cooper-Clarke.

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