The Superficies of Servitude (Part Two)

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

The Superficies of Servitude (Part Two): Shore Leave


Capitulation doesn’t mean you cannot catapult:

Small plastic planes on a wooden floor

Gain valence from his younger brothers’ roars:

The plane goes up,” one grimaces with glee

The mother’s hands jerk and quiver —

Wings pinched to polished hurtling descent —

And the plane comes down. He smashes it

And domes his freckled hands as cenotaph

For wreckage. Their mother flinches. Again, again,

His hands toy with the likelihood

Of perishing at sea: head, arms and torso strewed.


“Don’t be such brats.” The speaker wants to shame

This gyroscope of snot for not accepting blame

That others shun. They’re secretive:

Can’t you tell how quickly each has said farewell?

Disposable as kindness best forgotten

As having as its source, the brat,

His whooping loyalty to something rotten

Is puzzled by Authority’s abrupt

Reward for a lifetime of service:

Contempt that makes the honor nervous.


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