Furry troll with curious eyes
watched as dinner his table imposed.
“The password, please, else meet your demise.”
Troll drooled and lifted his nose.
Ominous threats no one believes,
beautiful puppy mine.
The password, please, you silly tease.
On table scraps you shall dine.
On the sideline, I sip warm cocoa.
On field, giants grapple.
Sweat and curses fly.
Shoulder pads crunch.
Whistles blow.
The players lumber toward benches,
spitting mouth guards and blood.
Halftime.
My turn.
Likewise an athlete,
I heft my tuba and sprint on field.
Spring came early.
Daffodils sent up blunt shoots.
Yellow buds perched atop short stalks.
Pushing right through autumn’s detritus,
spring defied winter’s chilly winds.
But winter sent a heavy-handed greeting:
a caress of snow, an icy kiss of welcome
and – most likely –
of goodbye.
“Cheers, everyone!”
Glasses raise in salute.
“Clink glasses!” a child calls.
Same granddaughter who clapped and “yay”ed
following a somber hymn at my dad’s funeral.
That’s how her performances are received.
I smile and bend down
toward her happy face.
“Cheers, little one.”
Always.
Your conspiratorial wink
seeks my complicit nod.
A pact, an inside joke
among us privileged.
What’s the punch line today?
Racism? Xenophobia? Homophobia?
Today the tacit agreement ends.
I will look you in the eye – unflinchingly –
and say, “No more!”
Straight. Into. The. Mirror.
“You’re early!” she complains.
“Better early than late, right?” I smile.
“Better early than never, I suppose.”
I’m not so sure.
Too late for never, though.
“I’ll go,” I say.
She scowls. “And come back when?”
Never say never, I’m reminded.
“Soon,” I lie.
For you,
I would move heaven and earth.
But where in the world would I put them?
The world is your oyster.
I shall place heaven and earth in an oyster.
Universal themes, these.
Pearls of wisdom.
Heaven and earth on the half shell.
To fit ships inside bottles is indeed very clever,
but I would prefer that my bottles held rum.
To ship boats in boxes – though no lofty endeavor –
while sipping on rum could be fittingly fun.
Moral:
Drunk lips drink ships; bottled boats don’t float.
Reluctantly I select one.
Meaningless; set it down.
Bored, I ponder others.
These to the left; those up top.
Angry, I’m seeing red.
To the right with those.
Puzzled, I look up.
“It’s forming a picture.”
“Yes,” smiles the therapist.
“That’s how this works.”
Like an itch in my psyche,
your insults taunt me.
In truth, am I that abhorrent?
Niggling accusations,
crippling judgments,
peripheral flashes of
forgotten shame…
That and more, you say.
We’ve only scratched the surface.
I really hate the sound of
my own voice.
