I burned my hand on a pan and then yelled at my kid
|Phil||Mar 26, 2019|
The same things happen longside every burn
One thing gets hot; its neighbors burn as well.
The hand, the pan, the singe of hair, that smell,
The hot inciter dropped, the iron spurned.
We treat the hand, the pan is on its own.
The red around the blisters hurts the most,
The crust around the leather mitt, the toast,
The bullet ants are fine; their bite bemoaned.
The shock - the faucet water’s far too cold,
My head is swimming, think I might sit down,
And put it in a bowl and slosh it round,
It’s bedtime, kids- the ally or the scold?
Don’t cry. The kid is crying. I cannot.
The pain. I wish my hand was off my arm.
Don’t worry, kiddo, no need for alarm.
We’ll get your vitamin, perish the thought.
Stop crying, kiddo, let us brush your hair,
Enough with this, you'll make us all upset,
No books, no milk, enough, that's what you get,
Till spent from crying she sleeps in th’ kitchen chair.
The truth is everyone is always tired,
Burnt out and burning farther every night,
Too much to ask to reason, so we fight,
We douse the screaming hand and feed the fire.