Portrait

You notice the nose: webbed veins spritzed
with little flicks of red, purple blotches
daubed with a palette-knife, broken ends
where blood-vessels gave up the ghost.

You see the waistcoat bristling
Harris Tweed, the label peeking out just so
we know, and, picked out in gold, a tiny
little compasses-and-square combo

glints in his lapel. You don’t see
the earthy animal smell of the jacket,
the whiff of stale whisky on the breath
where he’s tried to overtake

the Dylan Thomas record. You can’t see
his wife’s face, worn like an overused
tyre, or his children’s eyes blanking
out when his voice is raised.

You only catch a little of the scenes
where he rolls up in the early hours,
hammers on the door with a balled-up
fist, demands a final drink as a nightcap.

He always drives himself home, festering
in a bath of booze;  the picture doesn’t show
his kneeling wife, praying for a swerve, a skid,
the sudden emancipation of a brick wall.

Nairn Kennedy’s work has appeared in The London Magazine, Stand, The North, Poetry News and Under the Radar, plus several anthologies. He’s been longlisted in the National, variously commended, and runner-up in the Stanza competition.  Website: nairnkennedypoet.co.uk