A Message

If you were to tell my sons

what a calm and fair-minded man I was

when seated behind the wheel

of a moving vehicle

 

they would take this as proof of the existence

of at least one parallel universe

and ask you what other me-related miracles existed

in the realm of your alternative reality.

 

Perhaps this other me would be capable

of listening to Today on Radio 4

without expressing the wish

to hurl the offending radio

at an innocent kitchen wall;

 

and he wouldn’t rant about the vacuity

of the interviewer

and the transparent dishonesty

of whatever charmless airhead,

 

masquerading as an MP, was on air,

to vomit out some unconvincing defence

of whatever shambolic government policy it was

that said fraudulent mediocrity

was pretending to care about.

 

Maybe this imposter,

for he certainly isn’t me,

could watch a psychological thriller on TV

without exclaiming, ‘Well, he obviously the bad guy!’

the second that a shifty-looking actor

hit the screen.

 

I would hope that you could explain

that this non-me-me

had learnt to be more consistent

in his musical tastes,

having realised that there isn’t enough

cognitive dissonance in heaven and earth and space

 

to accommodate the notion that you can like

both The Smiths and Duran Duran.

 

But you won’t tell my sons any of this,

because parallel universes don’t exist,

and, therefore, neither do you,

and I will forever remain

what the psycho-analysts refer to as

 

a work in progress;

 

and my sons, as they gain that self-awareness

which only comes with age and experience,

gradually realise, to their disappointment,

that the apple never falls

very far from the tree.