In the clamour-clatter-confusion
colour And cries of an ordinary morning
The parent Searches out
Silence. In the midst of mayhem and morning
dipped mildew And yellings, screamings and buckled
up wrestlings The parent roars to a peak then
Says it The F word.
Silence. Amid clinking of delicate blue painted
saucers And crustless cucumber fine-slivered sandwiches
The child Three weeks later Repeats the word.
Silence. The pulling of tops over square-chins
heads-pointed The yanking of arms and tugging of
pants. “Your Pull-ups are dry.”
(Small silence.) “Oh good boy good boy you fantastic
boy!” Sinks in; Silence.