boscal45
11-29-2008, 04:25 PM
The long black sinuous line traces a route
From the bathroom window, across the kitchen floor
Up the smoothly swinging cabinet doors
To the counter top flowing with milk and honey.
The ants carry morsels worthy of any queen,
Feet moving to the rhythm of matriarchal drums
Business as usual in form fitting tailored black suits
That are always worn because there are no casual Fridays.
It is the sugar bowl that they seek
A mountain of crystals the reward for a long journey.
But a dark shadow dulls the glint of the treasure
As a giant hand reaches in to ransack the horde
My mother adds more sugar to stickingly sweet cookie dough.
She moves around the kitchen with a sense of royal purpose.
The undisputed ruler of her domestic domain,
She barks orders to prepare the table for dinner.
My brother and I scurry to follow her orders
Grabbing chipped plates and mismatched cups
From their resting place in the cupboard
Hoping we remember to get napkins and the salt
My father returns home from a day at the office,
His unfinished work following him home in a black bag.
“The entire system crashed today,” he says
As he rests his cares in the loving arms of the couch.
Dinner is the usual chicken, corn, and microwaved potatoes
Served with ice cold milk in our dysfunctional cups.
We discard our daily troubles with the chicken bones
And lift our spirits with fresh baked cookies.
My brother stands at the chromed kitchen sink
Wrist deep in dirty dishwashing water
I bring him the used plates from dinner
And notice the long line of black specks.
I step on one with my flat rubber sole.
There is no pause, no moment of mourning
Only the tirelessly constant motion of work
Black legs moving around the new black obstruction.
The ants keep on marching one by one,
And when I was little I used to suck my thumb
But I was told that big boys do not do things like that.
I’ve been trying to be the grown up boy ever since.
I don’t want to be the man I am told to be,
Another black business suit in gridlocked traffic,
My legs following, rank and file, the black legs in front of mine
To empty gray cubicles and mindless work.
Is there contentment in the life laid out for me
In the organized grid of gray buildings and black smoke
In firm handshakes grasping for royal wealth,
In following the beat of the city streets?
This is how I will spend my days as a man:
Standing tall, proud, and naked as the day I was born,
Head held high above the black clouds
With feet sinking roots in the dirt where I stand.
This is still a work in progress, and as such is still rough in places. Thanks for reading!
From the bathroom window, across the kitchen floor
Up the smoothly swinging cabinet doors
To the counter top flowing with milk and honey.
The ants carry morsels worthy of any queen,
Feet moving to the rhythm of matriarchal drums
Business as usual in form fitting tailored black suits
That are always worn because there are no casual Fridays.
It is the sugar bowl that they seek
A mountain of crystals the reward for a long journey.
But a dark shadow dulls the glint of the treasure
As a giant hand reaches in to ransack the horde
My mother adds more sugar to stickingly sweet cookie dough.
She moves around the kitchen with a sense of royal purpose.
The undisputed ruler of her domestic domain,
She barks orders to prepare the table for dinner.
My brother and I scurry to follow her orders
Grabbing chipped plates and mismatched cups
From their resting place in the cupboard
Hoping we remember to get napkins and the salt
My father returns home from a day at the office,
His unfinished work following him home in a black bag.
“The entire system crashed today,” he says
As he rests his cares in the loving arms of the couch.
Dinner is the usual chicken, corn, and microwaved potatoes
Served with ice cold milk in our dysfunctional cups.
We discard our daily troubles with the chicken bones
And lift our spirits with fresh baked cookies.
My brother stands at the chromed kitchen sink
Wrist deep in dirty dishwashing water
I bring him the used plates from dinner
And notice the long line of black specks.
I step on one with my flat rubber sole.
There is no pause, no moment of mourning
Only the tirelessly constant motion of work
Black legs moving around the new black obstruction.
The ants keep on marching one by one,
And when I was little I used to suck my thumb
But I was told that big boys do not do things like that.
I’ve been trying to be the grown up boy ever since.
I don’t want to be the man I am told to be,
Another black business suit in gridlocked traffic,
My legs following, rank and file, the black legs in front of mine
To empty gray cubicles and mindless work.
Is there contentment in the life laid out for me
In the organized grid of gray buildings and black smoke
In firm handshakes grasping for royal wealth,
In following the beat of the city streets?
This is how I will spend my days as a man:
Standing tall, proud, and naked as the day I was born,
Head held high above the black clouds
With feet sinking roots in the dirt where I stand.
This is still a work in progress, and as such is still rough in places. Thanks for reading!