A father sits in a room’s warm corner
to watch and not manly manipulate
the apples and oranges of his loins
maturity whispering that is enough.
A boy uncharacteristically gently
plays with every object within
his reach fingering each and every
metal joint and wooden transition
the shapes insignificant except for
fashioning with sounds and sights
his unfinished pent-up psychology
manually flat or in a fist.
A girl out loud in quiet voice
fabricates history, cause and precise
protocol for characters unseen but
inherent in the arrangement of cups
and dishes, chairs and silverware
we have all been players in the skit
before and always bound to bend
in her hands we chatter formalities
bumping into and out of propriety
depending on her age.
The man sits grinning comparing
the flair across generations won over
by the familiar strangeness felt in hands
his, theirs, those of his own dead
parents who made and played with toys.