491 - Poet and babysitter

The babysitter writes his poetry
While naughty child still frolics high above.
The house may fall down round his ears as he
Composes self, composing lines with love.
Imagination warms him like a glove
His hand’s enclosed within as it draws lines
And curves and dots on paper, very rough
But temporary, transferred onto screens
Later, to be seen by similar minds
On different hardware in different country.
The babysitter, almost scared to move,
Listens. She’s quiet now. The chaos seems
To be replaced by order. Let her be,
And sleep will soon entrap her in its groove.
Tue 8 Jan 2008