His broken face was patched
(a motorbike nearly killed him years ago) .
His crooked eyes squinted
through filthy glasses.
A Temple Bar always hung on his lower lip.
He must have been fifty.
I was thirteen.
His wife had died some weeks before,
horribly, of lung cancer.
He took to visiting the family.
He stayed too long,
He drank too much.
He and dad got on really well.
They talked about racing cars.
Mum said 'Poor Old Phil. He's lonely.'
Once he took us all to dinner.
He wore patent leather shoes.
He danced with me - sublimely -
foxtrot, quickstep, waltz.
He moved like Fred Astaire.
Then one stinking hot December night,
he drove David and I
to the old stone lookout
at Kangaroo Ground.
The view was stunning.
The 'lights of Melbourne' twinkled all around.
Later, as we felt our way down the tower steps
in the narrow dark,
he pressed himself
hard against me,
opened his slimy mouth
and poked his slimy tongue
deep into my throat.
I pushed him off and ran
back to the car.
On the way home,
he slid his hand
across the front seat.
David didn't notice.
Next week, he rang -
Could he take the kids camping?
So I had to tell.
Dad said 'I'll have a word.
It won't happen again.'
And it didn't.
Alison Cassidy
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/filthy-phil/
