Friday poem

I'm posting an original poem every Friday for a year. A little late with this one. This is #32/52 I think,

On ordering pizza for my teenagers and their friends

Their ways are exceptional to me, these

natives of the New World,

arms and backs all decoration.

Stood side by side they write the great novel of their generation.

In my country they would still be children,

but their concerns are larger than any child’s.

Life and death and early birth,

the plague in a city not far from here.

They feel their time is uncertain.

No gods to invoke, none of the old ceremonies.

Their devices are beyond me,

technology smaller than magic,

instant and

constant communication with the tribe at large.

I'm a stranger. They tolerate my presence, though just,

words clipped mid-spoken as I pass.

They needn't fear. I've learned the

rhythm of their speech but their grammar

eludes me, bound up with their history,

the pairings and separations,

the reparation of alliances.

I'm welcome here if I don't intrude.

It's my house after all, and I bring them food.