Image: ©️ “Ordinary Wooden Spoon” by limecools
Write me a poem about the
ineptitudes that plague your
insipid character, that stumbling
tongue I ceaselessly point out.
Or perhaps about the mild indulgences
of an ordinary existence you do not
mention, in order to postpone your
appointment with my reprobative whacks.
But not about my petulance at the sight
of you biting a whole, unpeeled apple
(idolized alarmists have sensed a worm
and aesthetes will gasp at those caving
teeth: “so unsightly”).
Nor about my lifelong sobriety
quenched by inner quarrels. They
leak as small fits cracking large
wooden spoons, or soaring word
bricks in lieu of dictionaries.
Write me a poem, implored the mother,
without writing it about me.