Fred Buijn

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A Father to a Daughter

I can’t decide,
what she resembles most.
A free range chicken,
or a circus clown.
dressed in a scarlet woolen chook
with chicken legs
for ear warmers,
and black ‘trackies’.
The epitome,
of tween fashion
I panel beat my smile,
As her blue eyes
lock in,
‘and you know’
(in that again voice)
‘they don’t go’
(the used toilet rolls)
‘in the hand basin’.
Then hands me the roll,
and leaves.
The executioner of small things.
Then later,
on the drive home,
slouched in the passenger’s seat
and feet on the dash.
Her earphones almost invisible,
as the wind catches
her hair.
Her ipod,
held like a second steering wheel,
as she navigates,
like some musical astronaut,
other skies,
other worlds.
And as we round
McGreggor’s bend,
and the Honda
gears up for the hill.
I steal another glance at her,
then crash the old girl into second,
thump the accelerator hard,
with the engine screaming –
‘You go girl,
You go.’

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