The Eighties

Infancy was perilous

Like in the playground
Somebody tied razor blades
To the hand-rail of the slide.

Dad blamed glue-sniffers, his
Blue eyes condemning blue punk hair
As he poured
Another drink.

At the sink
Mum peeled potatoes
Saying nothing in reply
To his cheap
Brandy breath.

And I wondered why
Their nightly groans
Defied
The council street of death.

After all I had two parents
(one more than most managed)
One a drunk and one lost
In their mind.