Knowing that it was my birthday;

And knowing that I’d spent Friday with the Aged P’s,
Visiting Cousin Iris, ninety four and chair-bound,
Telling Pa how the old haunts looked,
When she last checked them on Google Street View;

And knowing that we’d spent yesterday moving
The Infant Phenomenon back into our two-person
Bungalow,
Now containing five of us: plenty of room inside,
Move down the cars please;

Knowing all that, you’d have thought,
Seeing it all out and ready,
The elves would have done something.

But the planning is still unplanned,
The marking unmarked,
The reports unreported.

They’ll be off making shoes somewhere, those elves.
What a load of cobblers.