My Parents Have Come Home Laughing

by Mark Jarman
     My parents have come home laughing
     From the feast for Robert Burns， late， on foot；
     They have leaned against graveyard walls，
     Have bent double in the glittering frost，
     Their bladders heavy with tea and ginger.
     Burns， suspended in a drop， is flicked away
     As they wipe their eyes， and is not offended.
     What could offend him？ Not the squeaking bagpipe
     Nor the haggis which， when it was sliced， collapsed
     In a meal of blood and oats
     Nor the man who read a poem by Scott
     As the audience hissed embarrassment
     Nor the principal speaker whose topic，
     "Burns' View of Crop Rotation，" was intended
     For farmers， who were not present，
     Nor his attempt to cover this error， reciting
     The only Burns poem all evening，
     "Nine Inch Will Please a Lady，" to thickening silence.
     They drop their coats in the hall，
     Mother first to the toilet， then Father，
     And then stand giggling at the phone，
     Debating a call to the States， decide no，
     And the strength to keep laughing breaks
     In a sigh. I hear， as their tired ribs
     Press together， their bedroom door not close
     And hear also a weeping from both of them
     That seems not to be pain， and it comforts me