The future is a baby

The park is out of ice-cream,
the swings left un-swung.
No journey home to daydream,
a bell hasn’t rung.

Two pairs of shoes on the mat,
meat needs a chopping.
At the table no one’s sat,
full on, not stopping.

The boardgames age in their box,
telly shows its things.
No playing with Lego blocks,
or costumes with wings.

Just the one bed is taken,
on this autumn night.
a sleep we won’t awaken,
disturbed by your plight.

Nothing’s home for you to fear
bedding for your skin.
In our heads and hands held dear
little one, come in.

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