A short train journey,
Usually my music and me;
But this time there was he,
and his, they were three.
Clothed in fluorescent shades,
dirty from hours of play,
tired little limbs of theirs,
safe under his protective glance.
Number one, a brown angel's face,
Head firmly on the paternal lap,
a strong arm for him to hold on to,
as he slept, daddy's pet.
Number two, was a little away,
dozing on a bench all to himself,
stealing sleepy glances at his siblings,
an unspoken language, tied the three.
Number three, right next to me.
Droopy of eye, but sure of finger;
Took the words of Frost to heart,
and wrote them down, "Going for water".
Never did I know Number one's lap;
Nor will I comprehend Number two's lingo.
But Number three and I, we had Frost.
And we shared him thus - an unspoken agreement.