Werekidz Poem by Jacqui Thewless

After ‘bed-time’, guys,
my grandsons become Werekidz.
’Specially at Christmas.

See wee angelic
Mummy’s-boy baby-faced Luke?
- must be the moonlight:

Christmas Eve, his screams
bring neighbours to their front doors:
Who’s killing that child?

There’s Luke on the ground
splayed like Michaelangelo’s
five-pointed star-man

in a trembling fit.
Help! Help! Help! AH! Help! Help! Help!
Kyle’s broken my foot! Help! AAGHHH!

The neighbours go in.
Heard it all before. Those kidz!
It must be bed-time.

Dayne on Boxing Day -
for chucking cakes on the floor –
goes to bed early.

Unfortunately –
since he has the basement flat –
where the drum-kit lives,

the peaceful Pembroke
evening is shattered by the
loud bashing of drums.

Christmas Day itself
is fine till after midnight.
The boys stay up late.

All hell runs wild when,
let’s say, around two o’clock,
it is time to go.

There are alarming
sounds of breakages - maybe
beds, doors or floor-boards -

coming from upstairs.
Downstairs, there is more mayhem:
Dayne thrashing about.

KYLE’S GOT MY CAM’RA! !
Luke yells, KYLE’S GOT MY CAM’RA! ! !
I HAVE NOT! ! yells Kyle.

Jessie turns to Jules:
Isn’t the cam’ra charging
in the kitchen, bro?

- he’s just been in there -
fetching another sandwich -
and he nods his head.

Dean screams: Your cam’ra’s
In the bloody kitchen, Luke!
I WANT MY CAM’RA!

Didn’t you hear me?
His father roars from downstairs,
IT’S IN THE KITCHEN! !

Silence. Then, footsteps
on the stairs as Luke comes down
looking like a saint.

He bows his gold head
on his mother’s warm shoulder:
I love you, he says.

The whole palaver
gets an action-repeat; then,
suddenly, they sleep.