My First Dilemma

On one hand, my mother’s father, dapper
in his mason’s sash and apron, ball-bound -
psyched up as a boy before a fairground
just because he might meet some backslapper
who’ll provide the much sought-after leg-up.
Or, him gravely counselling my mother
not to speak like him, but more like t’other
‘alf – unlearn her Northern glottal hiccough.

On the other, all these restless Platos
(more like Blutos) hurling forth their hackneyed
lessons like a kind of human ragweed,
verdant from the villas to the ghettoes.

Sympathy v. mutiny. Which impulse
should a boy obey when facing adults?