My Uncle Pat – A portrait poem

I remember back when I was small

and foolish, though I’m still not tall

and just as daft, I remember him,

my Uncle Pat, seemed tall and thin.

As clear as day, he stands looming.

His voice was kind and clear, not booming.

The Kitchen, plain and brown and square

and neat and clean, as I stood there.

“Would you like something to drink and eat?”

My Uncle asks, I shuffle my feet.

Nervously I said “Yes please, I would,

Some of this fizzy orange would be good.”

And then I said, and I still regret it,

“You have to shake the drink to wake it.”

He took me at my word and shook

the bottle, up and down, I cried “Wait Look!”

The cap came off and fizzed, Oh Lor!

all over the nice clean kitchen floor.

And then behind me I heard a sound,

Through the open serving hatch, I found

My Mother and my Aunty too

laughing heartily at this much ado.

I still look back with thoughts quite grim,

My Uncle thought I’d played a joke on him.

 

Copyright Kristian Fogarty 23/March/2018