Clash, Clang, Bang

Pots and pans in a youngster’s hands

Clash, Clang, Bang.

The hollow sound of wood on cast iron,

a piercing shrike of joy

followed by that gurgling stream of infectious laughter.

Momma can’t be mad at that—

Clash, Clang, Bang.

Now onto the lids and the metal spoons,

metal on metal: a treat.

That ear-splitting ting-a-ting ting,

Momma could almost be mad at that—

Clash, Clang, Ting-a-ting, Bang.

Next try the knives on the

cheese grater, shuck shuck, back and forth.

No, Baby, no.

Momma can be mad at that—

Clash. Clang. Bad Baby. Bang.