Thoughts shoot from his head
in all directions, thick and overgrown.
They crawl under our fence
and are promptly trimmed back.
She’s no better. Her calculations
muddy up the drive and crack the stones.
Equations prick up in the hedge and slash
the faces of passing children.
They cogitate while taps drip
and the kitchen floods.
The hoots and roars of their own
neglected offspring echo down the street
while ideas spread like mould across
the kitchen surfaces.
In our house the world ticks over
And we are just a buzz around their heads.
We organise neighbourhood work parties,
offer to mow the lawns and erect new fences.
Someone brings a pressure washer for the patio.
They turn us away, shaking their heads.
Clean away the mess? Not likely.
This is twelve years of hard won muck.
Twelve years commemorated by the undusted
awards hanging in the lounge and the silence
after the children have gone away.
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