I first learned to fly in the front parlour
of my grandmothers home, while father baffled himself
faffing with my Air Fix model of a fighter plane.
“Glue the gun to the turret, then chocks away.”
I could see them down below,
mum’s stiff perm, fathers thinning locks
revealed his shiny pate.
Grandad’s socks steaming in the grate.
“Hym glard hi lerft my mhortley corew berhind today.”
I laughed to no one, speaking in my clipped military moustache sort of way.
Dodging the lamp shade, scrutinising stains on wall paper border,
while the stench of neck end of lamb and putrefied peas,
wafted up clouds of steam that enhanced my play.
“Bandits at four o clock!”
too late, couldn’t swerve, cockpit jammed,
lost my nerve, down I slammed.
How I hate my little brother,
his demon eyes that now fly about all over the place.