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Phil Wood

Wannabe

My mum scoops hearts from pick n' mix,
munches her birthday wishes. The dad
offers his grin and grabs a bouquet.
He wears Doc Martens, but acts nice.

He doodles anchors in margins,
the word is kedging he tells me.
Squinting I see his frown of thorns,
his finger picks his nose for clues.

Mum sets the dial for cotton whites.
They foam and froth, shrug and slump.
The accidents are pegged. Like fibs.
They flap a line of innocence.

We stroll. I splash the muddle puzzles.
The dad tells us he studied plants:
You prune a prob it multiplies.
The crossword clue is flapdoodle.

Mum flutters in her yellow frock
and butterfly bra. Makes me cringe.
The dad is larking in the park,
he bowls a bag of pick n 'mix.

I drop a dolly catch and litter
hearts under do not feed the ducks.
Mum and new dad are hoisting sails.
I'm jetsam in the ebb and flow.