First, the video:
Now, the poem:
The walls, oppressed, adorned as kitchens are,
Appliances and, yes, the washer, too,
A long box lain against the kickboard, skewed,
A platform for a Baby, smile-marred.
The Baby, in Big Man Shoes, a glad co-star,
Knows that The Voice is filming now the view,
This room, piled high, his willing brother, too,
Both occupy the place, both chewing hard.
The Baby, with his bread, aspread with lard.
The Boy’s with beans; at table is he drew;
He wipes an unseen snot like winter dew,
Both casual, all content, let down their guard.
These boys, this kitchen, upkeep must be hard.
So toast and beans, serenely, through and through,
Make such a change as if the days’ renewed.
A miracle of silence in the war.
Alas, the Baby takes a single step
By unseen loss of footing is he swept
And to the floor he spills with not a sound;
His brother, placid, looks not even ‘round,
The Voice does, though, a laugh with love all laced
They quietly project into the place
Before the Baby even thinks to cry
Another song resounds across the sky:
Electric organ music, nature known;
The Boy exalts to hear the jangly tone,
Lifts up his snack, in sickly croak intones,
“The ice cream - “, ere he finished, though, he’s gone.
His impulse has thrust him off his chair,
Too fast for e’en himself, and borne on air
He finds himself aslpash against the floor;
The snack, the peace, a miracle no more.
The Boy cries out, the shock, his feelings dashed;
The Voice can only laugh after the crash.
In ragged lives we seldom find a shard
Of ease, simplicity, or quietude.
When peace is found and just as quick refused,
What can we do but laugh and bear the charge?
I know I’ve sent this late on a Monday and you’re already at work, but you need to turn the sound on and watch that video. It’s a masterpiece.
Hope you’re all doing well. Smash that Retweet button, get your boy some clicks.
Thanks for reading
This is Phil.