Tom, Tom, our daughter’s son,
what and who will you become?
It is quite clear that you will be
someone quite different from me.
On the carpet here you sit,
line up your dinky cars then fit
them on a breakdown truck
and push them six by six if luck
across the rumpled rug
(and now and then a vigorous tug)
helps them reach their destination
where traffic follows your direction –
a shaky edifice with no doors
where cars can park on all three floors
with entry/exit signs which line
curving ramps at each incline.
Then when your cars are quite jammed in
you solve the problem of wherein
to drive this larger breakdown van
by pushing till your orderly plan
misfires.
When I’m no longer there
to watch you face occasions where
you’ll often need to fight for more
space than we fill here on the floor,
will you force others from their place
to win some bigger human race?
But no, I’m quite aware
that such a thought could be unfair –
my suspecting this to be the road
a warm affectionate child
might take to face the adult world,
it’s another case of overload.
Yet heaven forfend that you should bend
before some greedy selfish end
of such as lack your friendliness.
Do not, I beg you, acquiesce
when others steal your elbow room.
Take not that early road to doom –
like them you need your liberty
(though no one can be fully free).
So I hope you’ll have no truck
with those who likewise push their luck.
Seek for some more spacious place
than your breakdown drivers face
here on the floor by you and me
jostling for room and liberty.
©Terry Hodgson2020
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