Marching round the room
astride a broomstick horse,
knees lifted high
like a proper soldier.
Every now and then
his horse whnnies.
As he rides past me,
he tips his tin foil hat.
On a two-wheeler now,
careening down the street
his feet on the pedals a blur.
I yell at him to be careful.
Wasted words.
He flies past me and waves,
wearing his baseball cap backward.
He’s too old for a tin foil hat.
Standing in the front yard
with his arms folded,
watching his children play.
His son rides up on his
broomstick horse
and ties it at the gate.
He bows to his father
like a proper young gentleman,
and his father returns the bow.
They tip their hats to each other -
matching tin foil hats.
A contest entry
- Tin Foil Hat by Danna Hobart.
300 points, ended January 19, 2008, 9 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
Awwww, this is a lovely portrait you have penned. Thank you for entering.
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