and so i could only lie there,
listening to the excited exchange of kids
thrust and return
and the occasional lower
tones of an adult.

i remember strange things:-

tacky music repeated ring upon ring
with a glimpse of adults trying to have fun
to the beat, as kids follow

a boy crying as if
his last day on earth was done for
parents leaving him in
that home of other lost boys and girls
parents caught up by the irrepressible grunt
of the twin-monsters
of work and duty.

so i lay there, and composed a poem inside my head.

the indelibility of
a little boy
caught by his sibling
and brought to the hairdresser

sitting in the raised seat
perched like a king
he listens
to the tacky music
squirms to the beat
(of the favourite tune)

inside his head--
the roar of battle
caught like a POW
held in a chair

head held high
never admitting defeat as
the hair is sloughed off
bit by bit.

doesn't make any sense. i was sleeping till they woke me with their noise.