Scribe
Scribe
2017
Mind Over Matter
Flying about
over houses and yards
giggling and laughing
with cohorts in play—
three to five-year olds
thrilling to the power of flight,
soaring out-of-sight
of parental detection.
Was it fun I sought
in the dream state
or a chance escape
from Daddy’s spanking?
Mommy had promised
a daddy whacking,
too tired from mommy duties
for a do-it-yourselfer
And Daddy was, if anything,
a staunch deliverer of the law.
Not sure of my infraction now
but I did lie about my guilt.
Weird how mommies
always figure out who did what,
no matter what we say.
They have a special gift,
an all-seeing-eye,
that decodes the ruse
imbedded in our words.
But when you’re three
lying is not about dishonesty
It’s pure survival.
Getting that heinie conditioned
for civic comportment …
a creed not shared by little ones
cut from the fold
for whipping stick education
Plenty of time for growing up
And pain for gain I knew
was grossly overrated.
Had no real concept of miracles
at such a tender age
But one happened that night.
Oh, not the flying:
Kids surfing the air in dream sleep,
common enough
But disciplinarian Daddy
rendering a verdict of mercy …
Well, shit!
That was one for the books.
Nevertheless,
that’s what happened.
As I landed back
in my flightless reality,
a thought entered my head
from beyond the gray matter.
How else could I explain an idea
so far-fetched?
It came to me to imagine re-e-ally hard,
and conjure up an alternate day
where I was Mommy’s good boy …
That Daddy’s home coming
would be painless.
Lo and behold,
life imitated art.
I heard Daddy’s arrival
Heard Mommy ratting me out
Heard him coming toward my room—
footsteps deliberate and purposeful.
Felt my covers pulled back
to the cool night air,
auguring a new episode
of crime and punishment
that always preceded
a stinging backside.
Daddy began his interrogation—
good cop–bad cop
rolled all into one,
probing for guilt or innocence
of charges leveled against me.
Not that Mommy was in the habit
of making false accusations,
but justice demanded
a vigorous defense and prosecution.
Seemed like hope against hope,
but Daddy’s strange chattiness
under such circumstances
hinted a rare chance
for this to come out all right.
I admitted my misdeed,
knowing Mommy Court
was weighted against me,
and prepared for pain.
“Now you won’t
do it again, will you?”
Daddy asked.
“No, Daddy,”
came my earnest reply,
feeling the octane of improbable grace
burning favorably in my direction.
“Well, go back to sleep now,”
(pulling the covers back over me
and leaving the room).
Ahh! Mind over matter—
a seed was planted.
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Thinning of the Veils (Work in Progress)
Copyright © 2017 Carl Hitchens
Wednesday, February 8, 2017