Father was an accountant
and I’m not good at maths.
He’s not to blame for that.
The pest controller’s daughter’s
terrified of cats.
Her wife’s a liberationist
whose parents bred lab rats.
The therapists’ child
might thank one of them
for her hand-made shoes,
yet find they stand accountable
for giving her the blues.
Cobblers’ kids, unshod in the myth,
find parents all accused
of doing their best and failing
whatever the hell they do.
As Larkin suggests,
it’s no form of jest,
We fuck you up – it’s true.
With the greatest regret,
despite all you do,
you’ll fuck your own up too.
Father was an accountant.
He taught me all about maths.
The problem and the solution
are equal and opposite facts.
Cherry Coombe 