Round table

I have spent my adulthood
stereotyping.
Cyclostyle paper in the roller,
this is the tap-tap-dance of my monologue


The man at the head of my table,
my father,
retired hurt from an afternoon
of cricket watching, coffee-drinking.


The man at the head of my table,
my father,
on realising his acute ineptitude
at dealing with his daughter’s monsters,
bought a round table.


The man at a corner of our round table,
Sir Arthur and his sleepless nights,
all beaten fair and square.


These days,
the distant rumble of dinnertime
begins with disgrace
and ends with a benediction
made to my father’s
silent
helpless
teary
eyes.