Thursday, January 17, 2013
Reaching for the Cleaver
—It’s poetry, my son.
—Add the word ward and then say: I would like to be a bear, gay and happy free from care,
guarding this space with my definition/ That's the life like no other, climbing trees with my
mother, dividing these patients with my definition/ Though they call me beast of rage, I've never
put things in a cage, overseeing those minors with my definition/ Or set a trap since time's
begun, or shot a human with a gun, turning the lock with my definition.
—But Mr. Cleaver…
—Well, do you recognize this episode? How about it, Eddie?
—Add the word ward and then say: The trust company gave me the business this May.
—Does June know?
—Hush now. I’m reaching for the word cleaver, my son. We must break your lines.