our new kitchen floor does little
to abate the noise of four hungry
children, eager for their breakfast--
mornings like this I miss the carpet
we tore up; the milk stains
and ground in cornflakes
were easier to ignore.
when silence is won, by persistent
parental fiat, I add as afterword:
"This isn't Whoville!"
a reference I hope will illustrate
the ruckus they raised. After all,
it's just breakfast, not life or death.
in the welcome quiet I hear
echoing, as if from far away
We are here! We are here!
We are here! We are here!
I watch the kids sedately spooning
sugars into stilled mouths.
maybe this is Whoville after all.
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