Like Birds in the Cage.(Poem)

 
LIKE BIRDS IN THE CAGE 
 
   I tell him what I think of him. 
 
   He's asleep on the floor in a pool of his own vomit. 
   It's the same shade of yellow that you get 
   in those packets of Dutch curry and rice soup 
   and the thought occurs to me, objectively, 
   dispassionately, as if I'm observing a centipede caught 
   in the middle of a burning log, trapped by the flames, 
   the thought occurs to me that he might choke 
   on his own vomit. So I tell him that too, 
   how it would be better if he choked on his own vomit 
   and I make no attempt to lift his head or wipe his face clean. 
 
   His snores are loud, mumbling like some two-stroke 
   motor, the sound that floated down the streets 
   of my childhood on hot summer days 
   when everyone's father was out cutting the lawn, 
   except mine, when everyone's father was out 
   in their white-ribbed singlets and faded shorts 
   with the elastic waist and the flap pocket at the front, 
   pushing the Victa back and forwards 
   across the pathetic squares of burnt turf, 
   this universe of couch. When everyone's father ... 
 
   So I tell him what I think fathers should be 
   and how far he falls short of the mark, 
   how there's not one hair on his head worthy 
   of being called father, not the smallest clipping 
   from his filthy fingernails. It's then that I notice 
   the silence ...