My Parents Have Come Home Laughing

　　by Mark Jarman

　　 My parents have come home laughing

　　 From the feast for Robert Burns， late， on foot；

　　 They have leaned against graveyard walls，

　　 Have bent double in the glittering frost，

　　 Their bladders heavy with tea and ginger.

　　 Burns， suspended in a drop， is flicked away

　　 As they wipe their eyes， and is not offended.

　　 What could offend him？ Not the squeaking bagpipe

　　 Nor the haggis which， when it was sliced， collapsed

　　 In a meal of blood and oats

　　 Nor the man who read a poem by Scott

　　 As the audience hissed embarrassment

　　 Nor the principal speaker whose topic，

　　 "Burns' View of Crop Rotation，" was intended

　　 For farmers， who were not present，

　　 Nor his attempt to cover this error， reciting

　　 The only Burns poem all evening，

　　 "Nine Inch Will Please a Lady，" to thickening silence.

　　 They drop their coats in the hall，

　　 Mother first to the toilet， then Father，

　　 And then stand giggling at the phone，

　　 Debating a call to the States， decide no，

　　 And the strength to keep laughing breaks

　　 In a sigh. I hear， as their tired ribs

　　 Press together， their bedroom door not close

　　 And hear also a weeping from both of them

　　 That seems not to be pain， and it comforts me