Hour he spent on that thing

Hour he spent on that thing.

Red and yellow, stacked high, a spire,

tiny plastic flags, a miniature king

perched atop. His small, hot fire

of concentration, just building.

Then the older one, a blur of motion,

going for the fridge, not even looking,

a casual swing, a foot's devotion

to nothing but a path. A sudden, hooking

moment of impact.

Plastic bricks scatter, sharp pops

against the rug. The king tumbles, stops

near a dusty baseboard. Just drops.

No malice. No thought. Only the sound

of something carefully made, now on the ground.