Transformed by What He Digests
They are doing monarch butterflies at school.
The caterpillars rear, swivel and stretch,
Turning their leaf pages slowly.
After school, on the couch the boy lies long,
Black shorts and black and white top,
A big illustrated book wide open in front of him.
He has emerged from the classroom chrysalis
And morphed into a bookerfly.
I lift his tense body, making sure
The special blanket is wrapped round him
And not caught in the ruck of bedding.
I stagger to the couch in the bay window
Half of which is bathed in street lamp light,
A soft white on the tired grey upholstery.
4 am. Quiet. No cars on the road.
I massage his plump feet and sing the cramp away.
4.15. Still no cars. Not one.
“Is that better now?” I ask my grandson.
“Sing more songs,” he smiles, eyes shut.
And I do.