My friend, the policeman’s daughter, was proud of her father. Polished his boots and her own each evening. We her friends were impressed by our sister in femininity. She got a good shine on those boots and managed to get out to play, most days. Thirty years later, when I saw Paula Rego’s picture, the willing service and the proud face of the policeman’s daughter as she prepared her father’s boots for their day’s work brought to my mind my young friend’s daily chore. <br /> <br />************************************************************************** <br /> <br />Focused, lowered lids, pursed lips, <br /> <br />the Policeman’s Daughter has <br /> <br />her father’s boot in hand, plunged <br /> <br />to the elbow in the sweaty leather depths. <br /> <br />Poised, erotic in white petticoat, <br /> <br />her hand rubs hard, conscientiously, <br /> <br />up and down the black jackboot. <br /> <br />Tomorrow the boot will be muddied, <br /> <br />may be bloodied. <br /> <br />Does she love her father <br /> <br />for his power to give pain? Or despite it? <br /> <br />Stage left, the cat is leaving, sinister. <br /> <br />Or maybe it is dreading the moment <br /> <br />when the boot is on her father’s foot again.<br /><br />Janice Windle<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/memory-chest-the-policeman-s-daughter/
