New Man

The New Man

My father changed his body.

The first time he came home
with the new one
I didn't recognize him.

Mum said,
'This is your Dad.'

I clambered over his gigantic feet.
Investigated his massive head.
Admired his shoulders.
His thick, strong arms.

'Run along now.'
The voice was different too.

Sometimes we'd see Dad's old body
looking, I must say,
the worse for wear.

Its new owner clearly
wasn't looking after it properly.

It would wave
but Mum said ignore it.

It only came to the house once
- to collect its clothes.
Mum had thrown them
into the garden.

That, apart from the occasion
when it shouted after me
something like 'Son, son
speak to me'
and I hurried on,
was the last I saw of it.


Poem copyright Bernard Young.
The drawing is my take on one by Bee Willey from The Wonder Dish, poems by John Mole, OUP, 2002