That sinister twitch of the mouth
a seven-year-old alphabet
block builder saw
in the hoary old ancient man
was for his own son, who
had once played alone quietly,

remembered, and the stifled joy
when he thought of him, war dead,
while still really a boy,
now 40 years past. It was said
he never forgave his country.

The little one didn’t know
the man had wanted to smile
at the feeling a child’s intent
creating had fostered.

The look had lingered a second,
almost imperceptible.
Now it was spent, and had never
appeared as other than bitterness
to anyone who knew him.