Laurie wants us to turn a poem into a Madlib. She chose T.S. Elliot; I decided to go with William Butler Yeats.
Running, running, in the expansive field
The child cannot hear the mother.
Toys fall apart; her basket cannot hold;
Mere existential despair is loosed upon the park,
A red-hazed rage is loosed, and everywhere
The illusion of peace is shattered.
The best pack up and leave, while the worst
are full with awkward curiosity.
Surely some discipline is at hand;
Surely the Voice of Mom is at hand.
The Voice of Mom! Hardly are her words out
When a sense memory of trauma response
Clouds her mind: somewhere in cobwebs of memory
A different mother, a different father,
An angry voice as cold as neptune
Is rolling its low timbre, while around
drops the floor from under her feet.
The sun comes out again; but now she knows
that thirty years of stoic suppression
were roused awake by developmental defiance,
and what injured beast, its shame a mantle wears,
slouches towards the mini-van and home.