Sore Thumb
True enough, Dobson once had a sore
thumb,
making it freely hard to keep time, to
strum
more often on the offbeat rather than
on the on.
But Andrew, no George, no Patrick, no
Taff,
standing out like the room’s plainest
pikestaff,
is a guppy speared on bully Dobson’s
billhook,
frowns in the doorway with his finger
crooked.
Boxed ears of corrugated pink cannot
listen,
blind misty eyes blink sorrow’s dismay,
glisten
with reproach, might bear a newborn
lake,
flares his nostrils from inner hard dried
cake,
a foolish morning boy who forgot how
to scrape
or bow and how? Touch this one’s
temples;
the sparks that will fly can only
disassemble
to rearrange his worlds into scrambled
eggs,
his down-pulled lips of tickled pout
just beg
Dobson to lift cardboard cup; drink of
dregs.
Nothing a quick chop slap might not
sort out,
but ‘sore thumbs were made to suck,’ Pat
shouts
and ducks. Shrugs brows with an ancient
guise,
has swallowed more than just digits to
appetize,
reorders the world’s menu and wait till
it comes
because it’s true Dobson once had a
sore thumb.
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