Stealer of Children
The children come to visit
once or twice a week
and they are fine, I'm sure,
but not the ones I seek.
Though tall and fair and handsome,
not who I'd choose to meet:
those grubby-kneed and tousled,
the freshly apple-cheeked!
Oh, what I'd give to see them
running in the door,
coats and hats and mittens,
footprints on the floor.
Cardboard forts and castles
and the day they tried to take
sand buckets full of water
to make a bedroom lake!
Another trip to the E.R.
Superman has tried
(with a towel for a cape)
to fly above the concrete drive.
My daughter's arm is up around
a Great Dane's hulking dome.
He's all alone, she said
and declined to take him home.
The toaster that they took apart
to see how it was sprung,
signal beeps from bedrooms
where a net of wires was strung
In hope of snaring messages
from Tokyo or some Hong Kong,
lipstick on the bathroom tiles
when guests were due to come.
I play my games with memory toys,
pretend they're real again,
but something of it's gone;
It's time, time is the stealer of children.
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