The morning after
the first scortcher
we go to the park for a kick.
In the shade, baby oaks
are climbing out
of black acorns -
little green cocktail umbrellas.
Five or six kicks in
the rain arrives -
big icy drops
that get to the skin
through two layers of shirt.
For the rest of the day
my shoulders
are a wire coat hanger
hanging from a bare birch
in Siberian winds.
My icicle shins
snap and refreeze
each time I take
a step.
We go to the local Lego show
at the old
convent
where my inspired
sons
build a Caribbean scene.
There I spot
the skinny Lego pro
guarding his replica
of the Hindenburg.
He is in short sleeves.
He sips from a chilled can
of diet cola.
- Let's go, lads!
- Where to, Dad?
- How about the indoor pool
at the rec centre?
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