But he was hiding under the table

But he was hiding under the table

Playing peek-a-boo from behind his fingers

Eating a Garibaldi

Stolen from the biscuit barrel on the sideboard.

Waiting for the explosion

The rap on the knuckles

The smack on the arse

The spittle from a fuming ogre

Spattered across his face

The stench of halitosis

From a tobacco-stained mouth,

When all adults are monsters

Except for Grandma,

Who kept smarties in her handbag

And always put a hot water bottle

In the bed to warm it up

Before the Horlicks was cool enough

To drink.

Of course, he wasn’t really there

He was a metaphor

For the pain of childhood

Never fully understood,

Left to crawl into a corner

Of the hippocampus

With a sketchbook and a box of crayons

Hiding quietly

Afraid to be confronted

By the product of his own misgivings.

The fear of helplessness

Carried over into adulthood

Wrapped in cotton wool

Protected from harm

Taking up too much room

In a failure to thrive.

Used as a scapegoat

To excuse a lack of drive

Or as a cover for the fear of exposure

When the soft underbelly

He wants to protect

Is all there really is

And all is as it should be,

An overlay of experience

Compiled

To reflect the construction

Rather than the design.

The perception

But not the inception

Of emotional meaning

Or the intrinsic value of the child,

He hides within.