what a racket

mum was a certified sales witch
something which
ordinarily shoulda made her rich
but sadly didn’t
she had to keep her magical skills hidden
because of a certain stringent clause
in the local retail witching laws

I know all this, okay,
because sometimes on a Saturday
I used to stop
at the grotty sports shop
where she worked
and I’d lurk
at the back
while she tended the racks
of rackets and bats
and sporty shit like that

I remember one particular customer
morbidly muscular
tattoos & bruises
like life had used
him very cruelly
but he wasn’t bothered unduly
being usually
the meat meting out the cruelty

mum smiled
poor guy

DARTS! he said
scratching his head
like he’d rather be using a dart instead

I blinked
time seemed to shrink
but before he or I had time to think
he was staggering back through the door
with a Winmau pig bristle dartboard
Viper tip tungsten darts, of course
dumbbells, shuttlecocks, trainers & shorts
like he played about a million sports
including snooker, as I watched him disappearing,
judging by the fancy cue he was swinging

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