Sonnet for Boredom
Some days it’s all he talks of – Minecraft, Minecraft –
world I won’t set foot in: skeletons
and zombies, mushrooms, lava? When he’s gone,
he’s gone for hours, and the iPad is a raft
he sails from breakfast to lunch on, lunch to dinner,
though I try to haul him in – the park in rain
or drawing, baking – nothing’s easier
than giving in. When I was six, my game
was boredom. Bored, lying on the floor
of my bedroom, hoping for the phone to ring,
unpicking stickers to stick them down again, wishing for a tiny secret door
below the bed, for the curtain elves and gnomes
to stand on toadstools, whispering my name.
