Come Dance With Me -- anna hood --

'Come dance with me, my girl,' Pa’d say
sweeping Ma up into his arms.
'Ye empty headed git,' she’d shrill
cloutin him alongside his ear,
her little feet kicking at his shins.
'I’ve the dinner goin.'

My sister Colleen would turn up the radio
and we’d skip and clap around
the two of them as they spun like moths
in the yellow kitchen light.

Ma’s hand would creep, gentle-like
up around Pa’s neck.
He’d head for the stairs, her in his arms,
flinging words at us over his shoulder.
'I’ve something to show your Ma.
Watch the supper.'

We’d tiptoe up; listen at the door.
Colleen’d whisper,
'They’re doin it.'
Us giggling behind our hands.
Pa’d come roarin out, holdin his pants closed
catch the three of us racin for the stairs.
'Git down there the bunch of ye.'

'And don’t let that supper burn,'
Ma’d holler from the bed.
Course it did.
The tatties’d scorch n stick
and the sausages’d turn to cinders
fillin the kitchen with smoke.

They’d come down; Ma’s eyes shinin.
Fingers busy
with her hair. Pa laughin,
'You lot! The supper’s done for.'

We’d be sent to the chip truck… a treat.
Comin home the smell of vinegar’d
tease our noses. Our fingers’d
sneak into the brown paper, shiny
with grease. Steal a few.

Sometimes now when the Big Galoot and I
are fighting for the sink in the morning,
Ma’s soft green eyes smile
out at me from the mirror.
I touch his neck, say,
'Come, dance with me,'
and laugh from the bed
as breakfast burns.