Alive

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

and launches

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.