Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Kids fight every night. Mothers scream. Nobody dreams. Then cops arrest and shout. Kids fight. Cop calls their name. Mother talks. Walk round together—hope’s way out. Kids fight. But no-one’s giving them guns tonight. Set them free. Let them live. Kids fight. Why must the dreams all die again?

“Will you stop badgering me,” said Mum, exasperation at Jen’s devotion to sunglasses fast approaching madness. She chopped mushrooms left-handed for a vegetarian omelet, where they landed, surprisingly neatly making a shape like an armadillo. “Will you stop armadillo-ing me, you crusty-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside sunglasses-in-the-kitchen-wearing teenager.” Jen laughed. Mum fed her.

“You’re responsible to keep the floors clear. You lay out drinks. You watch the doors. You stay in the kitchen, make sure you use the right sink. You’re responsible…” Five minutes ago he called us a crowd of irresponsible brats but time’s running out. Necessity’s the dad of responsible kids.

This was their chance to build a bridge across old disagreements. But Mom shook the ketchup bottle too hard, spraying Amy’s smart clothes. The waiter rushed too late as red streaks splattered on Amy’s sock, like the bomb’s first blossom before her foot came off, like the laughter of fate.

Young, full of energy, time led him on; Bright, full of happiness, yesterday’s son Lovingly married, children were born; Working and playing, became worry-worn Wise, full of promise, advice for his son Problems devouring the future begun; Dad, will you calm down, have fun I love you Said the son.

Jake’s learning to swim. Foot on the bottom of the pool, arms held high with water-wings, he’s studying hard. “I’ll do it soon,” he says. Jake’s learning to swim. Lying flat in the bath, splashing water to ceiling and floor. “I’ll do it soon,” he says. Mom’s learning to mop.