by David Schein © 2010

                                                 The Fork

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.