Plastic Over Saccharine
A four-year-old kid plays hide 'n seek
with the back of his papa's Lazy-Boy.
Pressing his face to leather wall.
Scent of sunrise sews
its batting in a dream.
He jockies for attentiveness.
Praying he'll be light enough
to ride this horse to victory.
"Your Dad just likes his alcohol.
It isn't that he doesn't love you.
He works long hours
and needs his space."
She'd hang those words
like candy canes on Christmas trees.
Plastic over saccharine
fingers of his innocence
just weren't supposed to open up.
Beer breath for a goodnight kiss,
the only breeze his body knew.
Moods were always shifty moons.
The slap. The sting. The bruise.
The snore. A family full of scarlet cheeks
where roses of some need should bloom.
He wants to be that shiny can
on coasters near his father's lap.
Janet I. Buck
Posted over on Ariga
No comments:
Post a Comment