04-10-2021, 06:51 AM
What My Children Know
They know that my days as a child
were nothing stacked upon nothing,
So, I can't be trusted
when I tell them to go outside,
that desolate place
their Mom and I visited,
and they've heard about--like Antarctica.
There are penguins, and polar bears,
and no Wi-Fi, and anyway, it's raining.
I see Thing 1 and 2 shiver
with soggy newspapers
held above their spiky blue hair.
My children cannot hear them
knocking. They will never listen
for a favorite song to play,
dial a rotary phone, be left
In the car, or wait
for a frozen lump to cook
in the oven, or wait
for anything at all.
They know that my days as a child
were nothing stacked upon nothing,
So, I can't be trusted
when I tell them to go outside,
that desolate place
their Mom and I visited,
and they've heard about--like Antarctica.
There are penguins, and polar bears,
and no Wi-Fi, and anyway, it's raining.
I see Thing 1 and 2 shiver
with soggy newspapers
held above their spiky blue hair.
My children cannot hear them
knocking. They will never listen
for a favorite song to play,
dial a rotary phone, be left
In the car, or wait
for a frozen lump to cook
in the oven, or wait
for anything at all.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson