a bleak, wet Sunday evening
deep frying smileys for dinner
the kids in the bylane outside the house
playing marbles are gone.
They're there every day
come daylight and shine,
the little ones to the bigger ones,
even the young father with
the five month old child.
On my phone atop the fridge
his harmonica and sings
of a meanness in this world.
The french fries sizzle in the pan
the smiles held in by the hot oil -
fixed, fake, plastic.
I think to myself that's not how life works,
for into every life a little rain
must fall on and off
and the smiles don't stay in place
all the time.