Backpacked

Backpacked

 

I picked up a present in Doha,

cost me an arm and a trailing leg,

because the knees, let’s face it,

aren’t what they once were.

Shelling out fistfuls of riyals,

for a last turkey on the shelf:

of course, it’s haram there, you see?

But he’s quite the connoisseur

of all this Harry Potter hocus pocus

magic spells, all’s well, nonsense.

A rucksack in burgundy blood red,

roomy enough to hold his stuff,

and he was super pleased:

his words, not mine. It’s tough,

I ought to tell him for his own sake

and point out that it will break.

And true to life, things fall apart.

Forced zips will snag on threads,

canvas will fray, straps shred,

something loved will break his heart.

I swerved all these life lessons

because he was made up,

that first time he shouldered it,

on the way to school this morning.

Stopped at that corner shop

for a sneaky tube of wine gums,

Grandads are softer than mums.

All straps and flaps, hidden pockets,

runs me ragged, sets off like a rocket,

treasures to hide, bursting with pride,

dragging me in his joyful wake,

coughing through the frosty mists

limping gamely, my knees ache,

his blood crimson distance persists.

I used to be able to stride ahead,

then keep abreast at least –

but stronger now, he overtakes,

sprinting forward, leaves me for dead.

Think of a day I burden his shoulder;

things fall apart when you get older.