heaped his pillows
into a pile for
better asphyxiation.
He loved a boy
spinelessly.
With bosom-
smothering resolve.
Behind his lips
a wooden tongue
that would
only bonk.
And an arthritic heart.
He bought a
bedroom book.
Bypassed kindergarten.
Recess was
his bed. A
hard book.
But his lessness.
Unable to read
he rolled around
until the junk fell off his
tongue. Tonguing,
while not a part
of this biography,
is a big jack-o-lantern
sky. That’s
tongue junk, for you.
I followed him
to the monkey bars
reading Grapes of Wrath.
