Little Buttons

Mixing paint and worry you bury
memory soon to crouch in nooks
of fabric matter ready for the future day
to colour the new.
Worry beads of sweat appear
dragged up in too high a gear
your child-shy bashful
haunted eyes see more than we can fathom
in the paint, the
images carved into your heart
splash your shirt you twist into your mouth to chew.

You chase the Hoover
but don't know why.

We do it for you
but can't explain.

An argument borne out of love
my welcome home a kick of hate;
staccato dad.

Soaking the fabric with
eaten paint and worried spittle
each button chewed to
half its size
an open eye half lidded now
and through the weave;
the taste of spit
the stench of years
the streaks that mark you
a spectrum writ on paper skin
it fades outside
but not within.

Why I leave you day on day,
I fumble crumble but can't explain.
I hold you up to the traffic button
but let you down every morning.