The Philosophers’ Hour
There comes a time in every parent’s day
When, endless dishes washed and bathtime done,
Revolts suppressed and homework battles won,
You close the books and kiss the cheeks and pray
That bedtime this time won’t drag on for ages.
You gird the loins that bore your many young
And straighten framed diplomas poorly hung,
Then go confront the miniature sages.
In topmost bunk reclines Herr Friedrich Nietzsche,
Who questions whether there is still a God.
Below him, Plato lectures in an odd
Primordial cave of polyester creatures.
You mumble some distracted platitude
And stumble over to their sisters’ room,
Where Hildegard of Bingen augers doom
And tiny Ayn Rand has an attitude.
Refer them to Alexa and, much humbler,
Confess you’re not entirely omniscient.
Agree your years of schooling were deficient.
Lie in the dark while luminaries slumber.