Descartes in Day-care

the old fart
pushing the swing
asking if it's his turn
his cloak muddy around the trim
that's Him.
Arguing without care
about the colour of his snack
the time of his nap

Descartes holding court
in the toddler room
he wants his bottle
but a baby's got it in her hand
the pale white fragile thing
 held aloft—foaming at the tip
it can be traded for a crust
and time with a toy
a bond of trust
is established that day
at 32 past 4

the smashing of the towers
the dragging of the babies through the corridors
by their hair
the wailing. the derision
all that would come later
for today Descartes
is in Day-care.