Returning home, I find my parents
rebuilding the house.
The mouth of my childhood is wide open!
and a dentist in a hard hat
is chiselling at my milk teeth.
I take off my metaphors,
wipe my images on the tongue
and walk inside
where my parents are covered in dust -
‘It’s not what it looks like!’
they insist, but I break down
and land in a heap of nostalgia.
Where now, other than the photographs,
will I take refuge from a world
so intent on change?
And where now, more importantly,
will they erect the blue plaque?.