TEENAGE SON

He rests on pillows all askew,
beneath duvet tied in knots
and peers with bleary eyes at you,
as he tells you he loves you lots.

It's just his way of placating you
in case you've tripped over the mess
and through the air headlong flew
like the nine-fifteen express!

'Mind my I-Pad!' he mumbles in
that familiar half-asleep way.
You want to scold, but hold it in.
'Are you getting up today?'

But there's no reply as he's back to sleep.
So you pause to gaze around
at the shambles of a massive heap
of technology gone to ground.

His clothes are discarded in disarray
all over the beer stained floor
and so you tidy them all away,
then head for the bedroom door.

But your foot becomes entangled in
a spaghetti junction of cables
that make up an assault course within
the arc of his play station tables.

You stumble and land upon the bed,
waking him up with a start.
'Mum! Please be careful where you tread!'
he implores you from the heart.

But all you see are the coffee stains -
noodle and curry too,
splattered over duvet cover. How it pains
you, for this one you've just bought new.

He's exasperating, he's the bane of your life.
He drives you to distraction.
He brings you nought but anxiety and strife -
yet a certain satisfaction.

For in spite of his faults, he's all you have:
your friend, your inspiration.
He's the child you thought you'd never have -
your miracle of creation.