Playtime | 31 March 2007

Old men with dogs roam the neglected park
Where they once played as boys. Now
 take a peep
Into the lounge of Number Twenty
 Three
The Meads. Four sturdy youngsters sit
Before a slick computer, playing
 games.
A milky, midget, artifical sky
Holds them enraptured. Sterile
 bullets flash
And flicker, stuttering across the
 screen,
While Mother whisks around her
 microwave
Preparing instant meals from plastic
 packs.
Better to stay indoors. It’s clean and
 nice.
That dog-polluted field is a disgrace.
Besides it makes less work for
 Mummy. So
The piper bleeps, luring his victims on
Through the dark doorway. Deep
 inside that hill
All children are forever quiet and still.