Our family eats dinner, picks food;
Andrew nips away.
I hear the kitchen door begin to tremble
while Van-the-Man plays in stereo, digital,
but that’s not it.
Bursting through our kitchen door
a boy with trilby hat and walking stick,
diamond eyes, looks at himself in a mirror
a spinning rendition
of ‘The Old Bamboo’, jumping, partnering
a twirling stick.
We clap. He bows like Oscar Wilde,
grins and sits himself down to
a sideways glance, a smile, dinner.