Thursday, June 4, 2009

Sir Robert

Like steadfast knight
with foe to conquer, boldly he stands,
with not a sword but
rubber weapon in my father's hands.

He strikes! Impact
causes crumbs to dance on the table.
Mother glares: she
just wants a nice meal, if we're able.

Determined to
slay the small black wing-ed enemy,
he slaps and slaps
but buzzing means the fly still lives free.

Fly swatter hits
right in between celery and chives.
The fiend is dead!
Our father has saved our very lives!

All cheer but mom.
Table is a graveyard for dead flies,
But through her hand
I see her smile, twinkle in her eyes.