the uplifted heart
a poet whose grandchildren
enjoy his verses
Today we’re looking after the grandchildren.
I’ve locked myself in the bathroom again.
One of them, four years old, is standing
thunderously quiet outside my den.
They re-arrange the lounge as an accident.
I supply cake and biscuits
to crumble into the new carpets.
All of which is prohibited by their absent parent.
So they persecute by including me.
Our tomcat, a surly, bombastic mog
is a basket case cowering amongst the logs,
refusing to emerge, not even for tea.
When did either of us sign up for this doom?
I’m still not leaving the bathroom!