Matty Richardson, the Usurper
I am no longer
a hero
to my son,
he likes
Matthew
Richardson:
a nodding smirk
from Matty
and my son lights up
like the M.C.G
at night.
Matty doesn’t
stumble to the T.V,
fumble the switch,
(“Enjoy your trip Dad? ”)
say,
“Bedtime cool cat”
and forget there’s
still a quarter left
for my son to watch.
(“Cool Daddio”)
Matty’s an everyday
Santa Claus
he flies up through the clouds
with his signature,
then swoops
straight down
into our mailbox:
AFL players negotiate
small, tight spaces.
I lift my son up
plonk him in the car
check his seat belt
and run amber
for the Tigers’ training.
Footballs elude the grip
of stalking hands,
bounce off chests,
or into players’ faces:
they’re so much
better at their green stage
rehearsing the big part
they’re gonna play,
young men with plans
kicking goals
[...] Read more
poem by Pete Dowe
Added by Poetry Lover
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