Harold, My Boy

I’m a forever rookie. Perhaps you are
(stifles laugh), as well. You’d given me
a task. Bleached orange of a book, deep in
the grain, scrawled in neat handwriting.

He’s quite the raconteur. By the pen,
I suppose. Harold sat in the corner, and
“our boy ate quite a pile of acid one time”,
his world had turned green. Not quite that?

He squatted by his mother, pounding
chilli paste, with mortar and pestle,
grabbed mom’s sari, squirmed in scent,
exulting like this, over and over.

Prompt: Write a poem about mothers. I got inspired by this exchange.

Boy: Mom could you iron my shirt please?
Mom: No. Why?
Boy: Because you’re my mother.
Mom: OK.

Another one bites the dust.

Then take out the volume of poetry you’re reading, and quote one line from one of the poems. Why? Me: Because this is how poetry works. You: OK.

My quoted line, “our boy ate quite a pile of acid one time”, is taken from August Kleinzahler’s poem, “Green Sees Things in Waves”.

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