My Mother in the Playground
Her dress is filthy and smells of the pub carpet.
She knows that.
She makes peace among the spiky shrieks;
Can’t help it
Drawn to pick up the little ones
Soothe their snot.
“It’s alright. She didn’t mean it.
Let’s tell stories about elves and clever children.”
Her feet are beautiful and she dreams
And roller skates.
My Father in the Playground:
He skirts the rough-housing,
Big eyes troubled.
He has never struck.
He makes out their dramas,
Puts red velvet around them
Resolves them in the third act.
Worrying a bit
And whistling it away.