The old creaking rocking chair,
like your silent childhood clown
would never stop swaying,
never stop squeaking,
never become more than
another trusted old friend
the unwound grandfather clock
would abandon,
as the child sought answers
where no bottles were allowed,
where no pipes would remain unclean
for long,
and so the child sought and searched
in every cranny and in every nock
in every port of creation
only to find a wailing wooden horse
with a drunk clown upon it,
desperate to alight and find comfort
in the billowing smoke as the sea swelled
and the child soaked
in the last bottle left open.
