Scrap Poetry

I demolished a book today. 

Like a regular sadist.

I did it to get the boy interested in poetry. 

We spoke of mechanics and theme and tone. 

We looked for power words and mood and proper grammatical structure. 

We pieced words and phrases together from the scraps of an old paperback my friend had given to me. (She didn't like it you see, but I might, if I gave it a try. And I tried.)

The boy and I clipped and snipped and rearranged the bits.

We stuck them onto new backgrounds and committed them to their new order with Elmer's. 

We didn't unwrite the pages. We obliterated the pages.

And now the words belong to us.

Savages, we.

My scrap poem:

There was a strange note in his voice

words of wisdom

in a grating voice

in a voice so choked with fury it was scarcely 

recognizable

So I rolled my eyes up as far as they would go and

pressed the spoon to your lips

You were like   a little bird   swallowing obediently

but never opening your   ensuing discussion

long thoughtful silence

to stir the strongest sensations, and

When I awoke, I was surrounded

Everyone began shouting at once

One of the soldiers must be a traitor.

Lyric's scrap poem:

His first words of the king

he inspected the ancient rarest of gems at 6

The point where the Bowmen of Cush ghost was willing to take Emerson's word

His poor wife had reminded of this time alone while it struck

100 Words: The Boy Who Ate Everything

Listen here, Kid. In two hours you have inhaled one tube of Spongebob Go-gurt, three slices of bacon, two tomato basil cheese sticks, fourteen red grapes and a fruit cup.

You are two.

There is no possible way you could be as hungry as you claim to be.  Stop clutching your belly and howling in that dramatic fashion.

We have fed you. You are full. You need to slow it down, mister, or you are going to have a major tummy ache when you go to bed tonight.

Besides, your mother said she'd murder me if I give you chocolate.

One Table Over: Dentist Office

     My grandson Lyric is an amicable kid for a two-year-old. We can take him into most public places and still be welcomed back when we leave. He doesn't play "musical chairs" like some of the other children at the dentist office. He claims a spot and dares anyone else to try to sit there.

     He tries to share the communal crayons by dumping the bucket in the center of the bright red octagonal table. The other moms tsk tsk him. Older children help him clear the mess.

     Some of the other kids have coloring papers with Dr. Suess characters on them. I have no idea where they got them, so I tear out a few sheets of notebook paper for Lyric. Then, I feel obligated to share with little forlorn Josie in the next chair who also has no paper. Her face brightens when I hand her two crisp sheets. She chooses a stubby yellow crayon and gets to work.

     Baby Adrian is circling the table, slipping between chairs and reaching over the edge toward the crayon bucket. The tip of his tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth. Just when he nearly...just about...almost touches the bucket, somebody moves it away. This happens a couple of times, and while it is amusing me, it is frustrating Adrian. The other children are unaware of his artistic desires. He toddles away to tattle to his mother. She is in deep conversation with one of the other moms. His one-year-old tongue cannot form the words he wants her to hear. She scoops him up and plants a kiss on his fat cheek. He deems this an acceptable alternative to the art table. He pokes a thumb in his mouth and cuddles against her. He watches the other children drawing on their papers, but to me, it seems he is plotting their individual downfalls.

     My grandson has created a masterpiece of accidental triangles and circles and deliberate squiggles. He holds it up for us to see. We give it a thumbs up.

     He is left-handed, just like me. One of the older children tries to get him to draw with his right hand. He gets mad and growls at her, just like me.

     Eventually, he is called into one of those unseen rooms to be poked and prodded by all manner of torture devices. I smile and wave at him as my daughter hauls him away. He does not go quietly.

     I'm left in the noisy waiting room with the table full of papers and crayons and Josie and Baby Adrian.

     I take out my notebook and begin to write.