Occupation: Exterminator Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Occupation: exterminator.
It wasn't meant to be a finality
It was meant to mark my first breath —
a father who fought to hold his pen
but brawled his way out of a bar
like a panzer tank.
Throw darts for cups but couldn't push a pram.
A child abandoned in a transit van,
sultry heat, no air, burning —
hours pass, a familiar stranger taps the glass.
He's in there, I say.
She nods in disgust and leaves.
Minutes later I escape out of the window,
through terraced red brick streets, panting,
to the arms of a mother.
Where's your father.