When it comes together its shaky
to say the least; the collective body.
All into the hall, each ushered kid
an impulse of its own, shown
in to the canteen meeting ground,
to rows of moulded plastic chairs
set out like paper cups for fizz.
By the single step stage, a table
for food items. All donations
gratefully retrieved from the back of cupboards,
obscure packets and tins, stuff bought on whims
foreign stuff, healthy stuff never consumed:
parental contributions
to be given thanks for.
You can’t get these kids to be quiet
can you? Well they gave up trying
along time ago. Years of tolerance,
an embrace stretched; sturdy arms
now with the blurry tattoo: ‘SEN’
-therapy? Education?-Respite;
fencing in the dissonance.
The vicar has come and brought his iPad.
Holding it aloft he has some images
of all the things we should give thanks for
-broccoli, fish, meat, wheat-
next to me a child has his iPad
tuned in to Sean Paul
giving his thanks for jet-skis,
Brazilian buttocks and bourbon
‘honeys, bottles and models’…
Together we are a star,
unstable, flaring, spitting
nervous energy and amidst this volatility
the vicar, his iPad a beacon
of gleaming fundamentals,
compassionate hope reaching out of the pit.
For these windows of escape,
we give thanks.
My Deerboy 