Rumpus Time

A poem.

It’s rumpus time, you said. Now toss me on the bed.
Not too hard and not too far and not too high.
Stop bossing me, I said. It’s time to go to bed.
Off you stomped, and from my room, I heard you cry.

Tomorrow raised my head, and I got out of bed,
Telling you to play but not assign a task.
A washcloth on your head, you hadn’t strayed from bed.
I had heard the final time you’d ever ask.

I sat with you instead, upon your racecar bed,
Counting cactus stickers till you fell asleep.
It drove away instead of staying as a bed,
Stopping in a musty room. The walls had sheep.

You didn’t show a shred of verve in your new bed;
Still, I almost grabbed you for a little toss.
But rumpus time would shred a pediatric bed;
Somehow I was focused on that petty loss.

I held you as you fled, inside that foreign bed,
As I held you on the day that you arrived.
And afterwards I fled, withdrawing to my bed,
Hiding from the room forevermore deprived.

It’s not your fault! she pled, and pulled me out of bed.
Holding him as he went on should be enough!
Just leave me be! I pled, and crawled back into bed.
How could I explain the pain of that rebuff?

She couldn’t grasp my dread when passing by your bed.
Every time, I’d see you, and you weren’t sick.
Unmindful of my dread, you’d smile in that blue bed,
Asking me for one more rumpus, really quick.

The guilty thoughts would spread; I’d toss and turn in bed—
Your request was very small, and so were you.
But soon the word was spread; at last I left my bed,
Heading out—there still was something I could do.

It’s rumpus time, I said, beside a flower bed,
Holding wood and brass against my silken tie.
I’ll toss you now, I said, inside your earthy bed.
Not too hard and not too far and not too high.

Photo by Marisa Howenstine on Unsplash