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Poem

In the sun-blanketed town square 
the young family pause and rest:
young father, young mother, young child.
They are just starting out.

And a good start, it would appear-
happy father, happy mother, happy child.
Happy little world:
the elements of their contentedness 
seem gathered comfortably about them
like an unpacked picnic lunch.

The two sit on an old stone wall, 
with the baby stroller drawn up close.
The father takes time 
to give the child a proper fright: leaning in close 

he makes a fearful monster face,
and holds his hands behind his head to make furry monster ears
and curls his lips to show gnashing monster teeth
and howls his great monster howl.

The child is at that age 
where it seems 
his parts have only just found some sort of working order.
Now, he can scarcely control them:
shrieking in a delicious cocktail of delight, fear, and sunshine.

He shakes like the airframe of a fat cargo plane
passing through a turbulent storm in the skies above,
as if an unseen force is shaking him apart.

And I think: 
this is how death will come for us
with its great grinning teeth
until we shake, laughing and crying
into something we are not.

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