Play Café
The sounds of over-excited children and café stereo mingle.
I read the day’s news and events
With one eye on the screen,
And another watching for bumps and bruises to the person or the ego of my charges.
It is noisy and lively, echoing with conversations banal and sublime,
Between adults and between children,
With an occasional cross-generational discussion,
Often involving food, but sometimes on the subjects of politeness or safety.
Birthday parties come and go as the afternoon winds away,
With bright bows on paper-wrapped packages,
Zebra- and leopard-print balloons,
And children in inappropriately dressy clothes.
Another mother mentions that her child has just been in his first fight,
Deep in the bowels of the play structure behemoth.
She looks concerned, but does not attempt to follow the boy into the sprawling labyrinth,
Only watching from the outside, craning her neck to see.
Other parents gamely if awkwardly navigate the narrow, low-ceilinged, twisting pathways.
The rope walkways hurt my knees; the slide is too fast.
The children are more suited to the close quarters, darting like chipmunks.
I suppose that is the point.
Macaroni and cheese sits unattended and growing cold,
The child who demanded it having eaten a few bites and then run off to play again.
My latte is sweet and slightly astringent, growing colder with each passing moment.
My laptop is warm, my mind blank.
The children do not want to leave, though they have been playing for hours.
I read the day’s news and events
With one eye on the screen,
And another watching for bumps and bruises to the person or the ego of my charges.
It is noisy and lively, echoing with conversations banal and sublime,
Between adults and between children,
With an occasional cross-generational discussion,
Often involving food, but sometimes on the subjects of politeness or safety.
Birthday parties come and go as the afternoon winds away,
With bright bows on paper-wrapped packages,
Zebra- and leopard-print balloons,
And children in inappropriately dressy clothes.
Another mother mentions that her child has just been in his first fight,
Deep in the bowels of the play structure behemoth.
She looks concerned, but does not attempt to follow the boy into the sprawling labyrinth,
Only watching from the outside, craning her neck to see.
Other parents gamely if awkwardly navigate the narrow, low-ceilinged, twisting pathways.
The rope walkways hurt my knees; the slide is too fast.
The children are more suited to the close quarters, darting like chipmunks.
I suppose that is the point.
Macaroni and cheese sits unattended and growing cold,
The child who demanded it having eaten a few bites and then run off to play again.
My latte is sweet and slightly astringent, growing colder with each passing moment.
My laptop is warm, my mind blank.
The children do not want to leave, though they have been playing for hours.