The Old Man

every New Year’s Eve, a fixture in my life
was the old man perched on the bonfire
in our front yard.

regal in cast-off pyjamas or raggedy sunday suit,
he was overfed on scrunched-up newspapers
layered on a skeleton of branches,
his face a painted brown-paper bag,
with an old scarf and party hat
adding some swag.

soaked in kerosene, arms and legs akimbo,
he’d wait to go up in flames
after the countdown to midnight,
symbolising a slate wiped clean.
family and most of the neighbourhood
would dance around him
singing auld lang syne.

our secret stash of fire crackers would be set off,
staccato gunfire echoing; someone on the roof
would send rockets through the treetops -
galactic eruptions in the clear sky;
we’d hug each other, welcoming the baby year.

stacking the bonfire and
stuffing the old man was my domain;
but one time my two cousins volunteered.
we should have known better
than to accept their kindness.

those pranksters stuffed both bonfire
and old man with firecrackers
instead of newspapers,
dousing the lot in gasoline.

arms linked, ready to circle, we ignited the bonfire
on the countdown.
fireworks, old man and bonfire exploded,
jettisoning horizontal missiles towards us.

children, parents, grandparents, neighbours scattered,
seeking cover.
miraculously, the homestead didn’t burn down and
no one was injured or died of cardiac arrest.

my cousins never stuffed him again,
but my son’s now in training.