|
Pieces of Eight
by Ken HarnischPieces of eight
And nine and ten
I churn away at the jigsaw puzzle
The same way my mother did on Saturday
Nights so long ago. Upstairs, my son
Plays his war games on Wii, and chats and texts
His myriad admirers with elan, but with an
Utter disrespect for the beauty and
Fluidity of
The English Language.
Out beyond the bay window
It is a beautiful spring night
Zephyrs blow warmly through
The greening trees, and the
Barking of a small dog intrudes
To remind me that someone,
Somewhere, is outside
Breathing in real air.
I’m not quite sure when
The thickness of my wallet
Became a gauge of what
I am as a human being.
I know my son is safe because of it
And yet, in the day when I went outside
To play, for hours on end, my parents
Were no less loving than I am.
Perhaps he is encased
Because I am afraid
A thought that flits and
Shatters when I find that long-sought
Piece of the George Washington Bridge
And fit it neatly into place. 05/02/2008 Author's Note: After watching a neighbor one night hunched over her puzzle while upstairs, the raucous sounds of her son Playing Grand Theft Auto IV were so loud they vibrated the spindles on the bannister.
Posted on 05/02/2008
Copyright © 2024 Ken Harnisch
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 05/02/08 at 03:45 PM Mice write. I recall working puzzels with my mother and brother as a child. The distance between children and their parents seems to grow as quickly as g-bites that computer chips hold today. I wonder if before long dictionaries will be thin books and all words will be 2 to 4 letters for easier text messaging. |
| 
