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Francie Lynch


Crib


You play three.
Me, seven.
Fifteen for two.
This is when I lose you.
Your phone vibrates,
You levitate
Sitting across from me;
Making me audience
To all the drama.
You vibrate. Your shoulders droop
Like the gape-toothed village idiot.
You gesticulate, fading in and out
In a semi-conscious awakening.
Your trembling under stones
Sitting on your chest.
It shows in your trembling hands.
Twenty, for two...
Twenty-five, for six...
I overhear your child is truant,
Another wants a ride;
Another, a car or doctor or lawyer.
You're shuffling in your seat.
Not to worry.
Soon after the stones are lifted,
And you're properly pegged
In the stink-hole, the game's over.
Thirty, for twelve, and a go. Game.
So, deal with it.

Submitted: Saturday, August 02, 2014

Topic of this poem: parents


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