The warm April evening
tempts us to the breezes
sauntering across the lawn.
We drag our chairs down
the stone steps and plant them there.
Unevenly, to sit or rather sprawl
in silence till the words begin to come.
My wife, as is her way,
surveys the scene, comments
on a broken window-pane.
Suggests a thing or two
that every husband in the neighbourhood
knows exactly how to do
except of course the man she loves
who happened to be me.
Unwilling to dispute
the obvious fact
that she is always right,
I turn towards the more
attractive view that opens up
behind my eyes and shuts her out.
Her voice crawls up and down the lawn,
our son, who is seven
hears it—and it reminds him of something.
He stands before us
his small legs well apart,
crescent-moon-like chin uplifted
eyes hard and cold
to speak his truth
in masterly determination:
Mummy, I want my dinner, now.
Wife and husband in unusual rapport
state one unspoken thought:
Children Must be Disciplined.
She looks at me. I look away.
The son is waiting. In another second
he will repeat himself
Wife wags a finger
Firmly delivers verdict: Wait.
In five minutes I’ll serve you dinner.
No, says the little one
not in five minutes, now.
I am hungry.
It occurs to me the boy is like his father.
I love him as I love myself.
Wait, darling, wait
Mummy says, wait for five minutes
But, I am hungry now,
declaims the little bastard, in five minutes
I won’t be hungry any more.
This argument appeals to me
Such a logician deserves his dinner straightaway.
My wife’s delightful laughter
holds the three of us together.
We rise and go into the house.