In our house the toys dance the cha cha cha,
your foot is as good a phone as it is for the hokey pokey,
and each rubber duckie has a name and a story
(Merida married Marvin, but one drowned suddenly
while the other floated away in yellow grief).
Bedtime is for flopping, bathtime for singing,
and the hairs on my arm taste better than the ice cream
we buy from the corner store on our evening walks,
that half-block stretch taking fifteen minutes to cover,
a quarter of an hour keeping your feet from wandering
and your eyes busy lest they spot something in the street.
The tones and tempos may vary but a routine emerges,
an easy yet essential checklist to keep us going
and, more importantly, to keep us silly.