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Kevin blurbs...because he is missed: June 2005
by Cristy M.1
From this fruitless womb
sprung fancy
a little boy, moxie sprite
and curious wonder
of a genius-like imagination.
Perhaps I am his
mere creation.
***
2
He has an index card
for me: Defending
with shoes, with four
boxes made ready. When
I am bad, he checks them.
***
3
We met over mad
scientists and clouds
of tubular albino men.
***
4
When I ask him to tell
me in words, he asks,
"Why? When you
understand me?"
***
5
I am a criminal
in his righteous
sound-filled brain.
***
6
The horrors of his
childhood wring
tightropes around
his and my chest.
***
7
He was in his socks,
a king, feasting
glorious on animal crackers
with a rich
Spanish-tongue accent.
***
8
A smile that eases
any strain on my
wounded, jaded soul
when I tell him
that today I teach him.
***
9
I am an idiot to
his listing the
solar distances
of our planets
in quick demand.
***
10
We are in a jailcell
together, with secrets
that whispered but
are never said.
***
11
And if all goes well
in his dressing, he will
show in monochromes
yellow or orange from
head to bottom's feet.
***
12
At least my handwriting
stays with him and
in a box there is
a card that bears my name.
***
13
The boy is my
pint-sized hero,
saves my soul
from perpetual digress.
***
14
Enrapt by virtual
musings in broken
verbage that tickles
the part of me
that died.
12/10/2006 Posted on 12/10/2006
Copyright © 2024 Cristy M.
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