Old Daisy-Face

by Hannah Lowe


Old Daisy-Face

Old Daisy thinks the day breaks in the night,

wakes singing and waits for the blinds to lift

and the show to begin. I guess night-time’s a gift

of riches: police lights in the street, a fox fight,

the flickering stars. Old Daisy-Face sings louder,

his hot little hands in the air – thinks he’s stopping

the moon from falling down, a pale ball bopping

from hands to head, that big moon-keepy-upper.

Me and his daddy slog the long night through.

We sing, we pace, we rock and roll mad Daisy,

we try to feed him quiet. But that old crazy

just shuts his petals when he’s ready to –

then it’s show over, done, whole face sealed tight

and turned away to shun the morning light.