V ~ Raggo

A man whose travel bag's his wardrobe
and whose hat's brim collects rain
makes good, firm rump for the cleavers
of every generation's butchers

They dot a line across my neck, then
two curves down between my shoulders
at my waist, down my thighs, then they label
they label each part with squeezing fingers

My father's - the 'receding' guardians
weaned on bloody victory, moral vampires
who tell me, "Educate yourself!"
meaning let us lead you to the slaughterhouse

My own - who make up for lacking rough
brittle blades with creativity of cut
who are as zealous and more zesty, potent
as arrogant but leaner, more fragile

And now this child who bawls, "Raggo!"
at a man who wears the same jeans for a while
and whose hat's brim collects rain
as the kid rides by,
"Raggo!"
"Raggo!"
I recognise the butcher's performance
She tells me to ignore him

My father said, when I grimly proposed
chalking a hawkmoth on the back of my
wax jacket, "You'll put yourself on a pedestal,
and will only wait there to be toppled."

But for a man too uneasy with hooks
and whose hat's brim collects rain
there's no avoiding that position, father,
I teeter and tremble atop fortune