Today a fierce four-year old boy with the narrow, freckled look of a feral cat, has on his feet boots his mother bought him from The Warehouse which he uses to kick at the world piece by piece and anyone who stands in his way. It’s up to me to hold him until he calms down and the murmuring chortle of the doves from their cage in the playground can once more be heard. Afterwards, my heart feels as if it has been wrung of blood. I stand in the staff-room with its cold, linoleum floor and drink water from a tall glass. I stare out at a leafless tree where three sparrows hang, and consider eternity.
Kay McKenzie Cooke
This poem started off as a prose poem, then I changed it to a regular poem and posted it here on my blog (about three years ago now). But after reading it again recently, I decided it reads better in its prose-poem form.
(The boy in the poem will now be an eight year old).
PS If my Irish poet friend Barbara calls by, she might be interested to see that I have finally met the challenge she threw out, a month or two ago now, to feature the word 'linoleum' in a poem.
For more Tuesday poems please go here