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My Father, Crawling across the Floor
He crawls across the floor. His dangling tie Distracts the child. He hauls the child in the air And swings it round, once, twice. He holds it high Above his head. In the forest, a bear Lurches towards the cabin. Almost night. Goldilocks sits in the deepest chair By the table working up an appetite. Time starts up, judders and stops again, Its flooded engine refusing to ignite. We're conked out here, stuck in the slow lane Of history, where my father comes home late From work as always and will not complain. Seventy-two hours he labours for the state Weekdays, Saturdays, doing what, why, how, We do not ask him, but accept his fate. Time is forever in an endless Now Except in dreams, anxieties, and school, Though time ticks over far behind his brow According to a superimposed rule We touch when we touch him. We hear him roar In distant forests where his masters drool And lumber playfully across the floor.