For Luke
The children are ungrateful.
The regard the wooden toys
he spent the last two months making in his workshop
with wrinkle-nosed skepticism,
turning them this way and that
like a jeweller.
An artery pulses in his reddening throat.
The teacher cannot meet his gaze
and pretends to do her marking.
Some snot-bearded type places his train on the floor
upside-down, and tries to push it along.
KIND JOHN (erupting): Right!
No artisan toys for you, you bloody
bloody bloody bloody (snatching up
smooth pine motor cars with each word)
bloody bloody bloody
shower of bastards!
No comments:
Post a Comment