Married Without Children
I gaze down upon the young parents
in the restaurant with their child.
His clothing, a Jackson Pollock painting,
Number 3, 1950 (Scrambled eggs and grape jelly).
He is less murderous doll and more
necromancer with shrill incantations.
Adjacent tables ask for their checks.
Over screams and animistic pleading,
his parents are a mountain brook.
Their breathing slows to a Zen state.
The child hurls his spoon at the waitress.
Now, an Olympian seeking a laurel.
He twists his hips to release
the plate, a shattered discus.
I put down my cup, and diagnose
with the sheer certainty of the childless,
what they should be doing.
In two years, my son will be born.
I gaze down upon the young parents
in the restaurant with their child.
His clothing, a Jackson Pollock painting,
Number 3, 1950 (Scrambled eggs and grape jelly).
He is less murderous doll and more
necromancer with shrill incantations.
Adjacent tables ask for their checks.
Over screams and animistic pleading,
his parents are a mountain brook.
Their breathing slows to a Zen state.
The child hurls his spoon at the waitress.
Now, an Olympian seeking a laurel.
He twists his hips to release
the plate, a shattered discus.
I put down my cup, and diagnose
with the sheer certainty of the childless,
what they should be doing.
In two years, my son will be born.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson