The Family Man

A dark little poem

The Family Man, they call him, The engineer of entire lives. A diverse array of talents, his. He can make fathers, siblings, wives.

They’d email in commissions, Request the family they desire. “We want three sons, one an Olympian,” “How much do you cost to hire?”

At first he’d create them lovingly, Spend hours on their design. A freckle here, a violinist there, “Wow! Thank you for this family of mine!”

Until his own were murdered, Struck down right there in the street. He charges more per package now, He programmes all the wives to cheat.

The kids are installed with illnesses, Hidden until the warranty has run out. The eldest comes with added aggression, The youngest is riddled with self-doubt.

During lunch he sits in the darkness, And sobs into his cold flask of tea. Then back to work, loads up the screen, Makes a child who’ll soon slaughter three.

The Family Man, they call him, The manufacturer of a nuclear home, And unlike most weapons and explosives, These families will blow up on their own.