She peels the spuds, he puts the kids to bed.
She holds him close, he opens up the fridge,
and winking at her, he pulls out two beers.
The whisper of the ring pull, and the hiss
are like a balm to them of cool dock leaves,
or suntan lotion in between the toes.
She walks to the piano, grabs the stool,
and rolls it round. It squeaks as she sings off,
and laughs the weight of worry from her face.
He strikes a pose and makes a pelvic thrust,
and growling low, he pats his sweaty brow,
and just before they pull into a clinch,
their daughter’s face appears before the door.
She says she cannot sleep, the monster’s back,
and it is bigger than it ever was.
“Come here my love, we’ll soon put stop to that.”
“Don’t worry, pet, your dad will heat your milk,
and when he’s done he’ll tuck you up in bed.”
and with these words do ‘mum’ and ‘dad’ become
a harbor from which she will have to drift
and list to port to load her ships with dreams.