Milo's Yellow Digger

Milo said, "Why's that phone got legs?"
A TV advert and we discussed it at great length.
A perfectly reasonable question as we wandered to the beach.
We fixed our patch, one towel each, in eyeshot
of family groups encamped behind boozy windbreakers.
Boys and girls took buckets and spades out into no-mans-land,
Empire building. Construction. Pride on little faces, as one
decided on a moat, one on the delightful anticipation of a big wave,
and each hoped for some fairness in destruction.

None were waiting on a clumsy foot,
none wanted a war to break out in the first place.
Accidents happen. The heat; a toddler, an older brother,
an argumentative sister - a slip, a kick, a stick, a disaster.
Always at the moment one wants to control the other.

You sat and watched your efforts plundered, raised to the ground.
Mothers fussing, fathers biting lip, itchy trigger-finger disputes,
and you didn't budge an inch. "What happened?"
I said to your little face, wanting to jump up
and down, on all the other towns around.
"Earthquake. Need a Yellow Digger..."
and you pulled one out of your bag,
began "Vacuation Operations..."
sent in the "Ann-balances, neee-naw, Roger-
Foxtrot-Dandy. All Communication's Dead.

Look!" you said, pointing to a handy crab you'd found,
"I got the phone with legs, to run along ahead..."
.