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.
About Bill Mohr