This time around
they say, we won’t
be at loggerheads,

we’ve understood
you can’t measure up,
we’ll do maths & spelling

and that’s enough,
afternoons, we’ll make
cake, play in the yard,

there’s only so much
you can ask of your child;
yourself.

This time around
we’ll know what we lost
on the swings we gained

on the wild roundabout
of this pestilence
where no one gets out

till the whole thing’s done:
the hurdy-gurdy’s
wonky & the child’s cry

goes either way.
Terror and joy.
No walk in the park.

The more the big
doors close, the more
images of outside

pile up, like some
malware you can’t stop
blossoming across

your mental screen:
a backdrop of beaches
meadow or mountaintop,

anything with vistas
those places we
shouldn’t have been

burning up earth
to visit anyway
as if the earth were ours

and it is, but not only.