Thursday, August 11, 2011

Five fingers

It was once a game
Handed down
From generation
To generation
Where the child
Was taught to share
His food with others
And leave the leftovers
To the pet,
It ends with tickling
And much laughter;
The house I am visiting
Has a single child
I once helped raise,
She is now quite grown up
Hardly recognises me
As I enter,
And continues
To watch television
Typically with a packet of chips,
She has no sibling
To stake any claim
To her snacks
She doesn't offer me anything
Her mother appears sleepily
Soon becomes wide awake
As she offloads all the local gossip
I am least interested in
The misfortunes of others
Do not make me happy
I have little news to tickle her
The long bus journey
For this courtesy call
Has made me thirsty and hungry
I suddenly want to grab the hand
Of my hostess
And play the game
Of the five fingers with her.

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