Sunday, June 19, 2016

June 19


  1. Bliss at 6 years old

    Cherry red overalls, gingham cuffed edge, caressing soft brown fur
    Blue button eyes and head cocked left, wink attention to me.

    You arrived in a Marshal Fields box, gently bedded in snow white paper
    Grandfather fur framing your cheeks
    Nylon whiskers not lasting a year
    A half open mouth, whispering secrets
    Clothes tattered quick by hugging adventures.
    The stitched pink nose to touch-kiss.
    Flopped ears laughing in style.

    More boxes from Marshal Fields,
    A plethora of steiff buttons studs, in long jack rabbit ears
    Line up familial clusters, hold fast on the Hitchcock bed
    Tall ones in the back, short ones in the front
    Gingham color matched
    Legs steadied to guard the door
    Arms twisted to hug in dance
    Heads pivoted to meet the gaze
    Flopped ears laughing in style.

    You were first
    You were always the choice
    Morning welcome, nigh time close
    Sized right, squeezed right, sung right, painted right
    Playground, summer camp, auntie visits
    6 yrs, 10 yrs, 16 yrs, 60.
    Flopped ears laughing in style.

  2. dixie cup -- bliss at 5

    Just as you pulled the tab the little thumbnail on the tender lid
    Just as you felt it resist, peel itself back — that’s the first step.
    Then, the wooden spoon-y thing that isn’t a spoon but more like a knife
    A butter knife maybe except its oval on the end, and rounded so the children
    Can’t hurt themselves but they can’t eat what’s inside the cup very fast either
    And so several points are served — waste not want not, think of all those children
    In china (why china? Because it’s very far) with nothing to eat and certainly not
    Ice cream flattened into yin and yang chocolate/vanilla subsections in the roundness
    Of the cup.
    The wooden spatula-spoon-eating-implement must be released from its wax paper confinement.
    The edge — serrated — must be torn open, the wooden thing released.
    And now there is already so much to throw away and you only have two tiny child hands.
    Just as you attempt to hold, the lid, the cup, the spoon thing, the paper it comes in — impossible —
    Some hand — an adult hand— takes the detritus.
    Just as you hold the cup in your hand. It’s tiny too, so it fits. It’s cold, and we know what that means
    It means deliciousness. It means summer. It means standing someplace hot in New York City.
    It means eating vanilla side of the yin-yang equation first. To get it over with. Vanilla is ok but
    Not like the other side.
    Just as you plunge the implement into the now softer side. And the taste slides on your tongue.
    Just as you breathe it in, all of it. Ice-cream, summer, heat, a bird in the distance maybe, trees,
    But most of all that ice-cream and the silent swerve of the wooden spoon-thing
    Diving into that cold cup for another

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