Tuesday Poem: "Channelling his Inner Greek"

Mischief light fills his eyes

and he can’t believe his ears.

His father is giving him permission

to smash a plate on the concrete driveway.

Mum’s picked up a nice line in Crown Lynn retro plates

in a second-hand shop in Timaru

and she’s culling hard.

Tiny chip on the underside of the rim, felt but unseen,

and it’s unsentimentally consigned

to the dustbin of history

or at least some anonymous landfill.

Dad sees an opportunity for secret boy business,

sanctioned vandalism. “Don’t tell Mum. She wouldn’t approve.”

That boy’s blue eyes are

charged with adrenalin

when that white innocence shatters

in a porcelain explosion.

“Do you feel a little bit Greek?” Dad asks

and is met with incomprehension.