Pat, Auntie Pat
Both the plaintive moan and tell tale tattler
to myself and Killian’s attempts to flee for a fag by the wayside.
The spy in our midst, at once our traitor and our watch dog bred.
No chance to escape his torment, we suffered him in silence.
Or at least in muttered curses themselves by the wayside fled.
Pat, Auntie Pat
The, at once childish, though distinctly cunning, call to arms of all attention
His will to have us be undone and yet not knowing, even then –
The true power of addiction, the urge which must be answered.
We slipped his noose from time to time but his nose thereafter sharper
Calling attention to our scent, “like old men in a pub” –
the crusty beard-stained-yellow troubadours of hapless pints and memory.
Pat, Auntie Pat
And so the buoyancy of teenage prattle was exposed,
to blushes forth the information that in secret had been cast.
Not to be trusted evermore
The boy to arms alone like many times before
A schoolyard had dared to bully but he bit back
And so he disappeared from out that car and on into his only life
Till time and distance solidified but a memory
Till one cruel Sunday morning and his life cut short
Pat, Auntie Pat
The echo of a time forever more.
© The Hairy Teacher, (October 3, 2016), Revised April 13, 2020.
