A Crooked Poem

 

Forget about the shotgun,
Your father’s gone.
Kid, let’s have some fun.

I’ll give you a dime
to make your father’s
erring words rhyme
and wee-bits of vitamin
pills to hasten
the archaic flow
of your enzyme.

Gladly,
fasten yourself
to the wooden bed.

When he comes back
he’ll try to budge you
from your world of still time
with his tongue of fire.
Unsatisfied, he’ll get a stick
whip your head
(he thinks you deserve it)
while you poor dear
in a world so real
will not seem to mind
the final cracking
of a father’s behind.

And occasionally
you’ll live to tell
of those inverted years
and the engrossing satisfaction
of growing cross-eyed while
staring at a picture
of your mom’s wan face
with her biggest smile.

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