THAT POEM

THAT POEM

I’d had it with that poem.
One night
I told him I’m the one that
breathed life into him and i
could sure take him out
anytime I damn well pleased.
I couldn’t care any less about
how sensitive
he had become after being
bullied in public school
or that, now that he was
older, he still couldn’t survive
on his own. maybe I just
wanted some recognition
for what I’d done with him:
taken some spent gas
and bile and whatever
was left over from
middle-class living and
providing for others
and made something
resembling me in a way
(but, honestly, looked more
like my father and my children).
anyway we exchanged some
really harsh words and me being
drunk I knew I wouldn’t remember
most of it nor take back anything.
that damned poem must’ve
gotten pissed and had his pride
jostled into action. the next morning
the box where he’d lay up
days on end
and point
himself toward the tv,
coasting along on my
magnanimity and largesse,
was now empty.
I could see that he’d had a restless night;
the other papers that shared space with him
in that box were all wrinkled, wadded, and torn.
he left the front door open too.
no telling where he’d gone or what he would
do but I was sort of proud knowing that he was now
off on his own and would be judged for what
he was – with or without my input or endorsement.
I felt sorry for how we’d ended our relationship
After so long together
but I can’t say I was upset or that
I wasn’t already thinking of a new
project -  not necessarily his replacement – but
shape-shifting words into a more improved and honed
configuration -
something grateful
and gracious.

                                                                                                -jimhill (6-12-2015)