Strop

Dad was one for the old times. The good old. On the end
of a bout of old leather, he'd fetch up "one for good"
as good as one for the road, going by the shine
he took to cow-hide and latherings, backhandling his moustache.
ARGEE NO. 33, Genuine Hide, Mum tried to,
black lash and brown, she eyed as if they bit,
swingeing carnivores with all their feed-time alacrity
and full-fed high shine that me and Billy sweated at
after. A touch with the hook end was the ultimate threat.
Never got that, myself, till the article came my way
from Dad's girl, worse times, not much she'd still call his,
and her unloading loot for her great step forward
back into circulation. Billy got the Bible
Mum had written us (birth-date, space for marriage) into.
Spur to prick, so to speak, but what girl ever knew Billy
intent? We'd set up the girls, so he'd talk girls,
come closing time he'd rather fight. Come on, he'd get into us,
mix it! No man'll see my back, and no damn
slut to bottle me, can't you do anything but whore?
Mum never would've believed it. He was the one
got the hook end solid, elder son not tough enough
and not fast enough on the ball, not tall enough ever,
took to his fists too late and anyway guileless.
Lucky coming later, I sized it up, could handle it,
but it's a bad taste when they phone about where he is
and there's nothing will knock him sober. Can't take him home.
Now the strop, in good order there where the kids can see it –
I always wonder why it never taught him anything.