The Modern Parents
Christopher Barnes, UK
He jerks up the window,
a peculiarly British house
totting up the value,
things he can take.
They pirouette through rooms,
the tips of their toes
malingering to rhythms,
the Burglars’ Sinfonietta.
Forestalling limpidity.
Bedsprings creak.
Melodious questions.
Half-light, dawn;
shapes adumbrate.
Powdery colours
slowly possessable from grey.
Dimmer houses conform
on Espalier Street.
Mother steals
across the landing
into echelons, shadows,
first Silk Cut
pursed between lips.
In a moment
stairs expiate secrets,
wooden phalanxes tense.
Dad is at the sink.
The kitchen is a roulette:
knives, pine, hi-fis, oleographs
pictures, the tortured.
She checks tools:
crow bar, wire, glass cutter Ð
slipping the door
trap-spring quiet.
