The Terrible End of Invention - (poetry monthly)
All hell broke loose
the day after the day after
he was big enough
to steal out of the house unnoticed.
First stop - sabotage doorstep
deliveries of 'cow juice' -
and it was Alan I felt sorry for -
no inclination to fight
back at the irate.
All we could do was agree
it was terrible - TERRIBLE
to find lids lifted, the foreign bodies
rudely insisted, with grubby digits,
before carefully resealing the foil.
Terrible, how beetles must've swam
for a bit with limp worms - soil
still attached about their saddles,
spoiling the purity of lactation,
but why anyone would want
to slug mild Alan in the gob for it
was beyond me. It wasn't him,
after all, but the boy, being wild -
our first child, that did the terrible deed.
He wasn't bad; just very inventive,
and though we tried our hardest
to redirect this wonderful quality,
even squash it,
nothing seemed to help him.
We were told a smack might do
the trick - tried it once,
to keep bad neighbours
off his back, poor kid,
but he grew out of it in the end,
leaving us with this disconsolate
feeling - a punch in the gut
and a troubled heart. Terrible.