Immemorial Games

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One immemorial game
was for Dad on hands and knees
a child, inviolate, perched on his back,
to perambulate down the dark hallway
past the cupboards housing
brown dead men and hats,
while we victims awaited
the human juggernaut’s approach.

‘Boof!’ exploded Dad
his hazel eyes wicked as a goat’s,
his face with blown out cheeks
twice its normal size.
He’d lurch round the door, while his rider
above our screams yelled ‘Boofhead! Boofhead!’
inexpressibly pleased.

We were never sated.
We feasted on the torturer
who gave us such deep pain.
We watched the sparks stroked from his eyes.
We ran into the arms of the beast.

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