by David Schein © 2010
you threw when you screamed Fuck You
stuck in my leg before it clattered to the floor
like the love I stepped on
when I threw the noodles at your head.
Today, three days after that stunt
I remove the bandage to examine the damage
three angry red dots on my leg
and wonder: what about the missing tine?
Three dots; the fork had four.
I apply alcohol to the situation
like I do, daily to disinfect the problems
to prolong the ponder and avoid the conclusion.
Maybe you kept it, that tine
the missing part of the fork you threw
to use later on dangers worse than me
for when you hit the road, take your own fork and grow away.
Thirty five years ago when I was twenty-five
my father too pissed me off.
His sadness hurt much worse than the fork you
threw as he reminisced
to the hairy, hungry guy
who used to be his piggy-back boy,
"Why do children have to grow up?
They are so delicious,"
tears in his eyes,
overcome by the loss of me.
Fuck you, I thought,
I'm not Peter Pan, I'm sorry. So
sorry I threw the noodles at you
when you refused to pick up your mess.
Bad modeling, as they say, on my part
that inspired you to make that incredible ninja throw
that stuck in my leg
that sticks in my head
as I ponder the dangerous career
that awaits you in this circus.