Chops

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    Chops

    Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
    She wrote a poem
    And called it "Chops"
    Because that was the name of her dog
    And that's what it was all about
    And her teacher gave her an A
    And a gold star
    And her mother hung it on the kitchen door
    And read it to her aunts
    That was the year that Father Tracey
    Took all the kids to the zoo
    And he let them sing on the bus
    And her little sister was born
    With tiny toenails and no hair
    And her mother and father kissed alot
    And the girl around the corner sent her A
    Valentine signed with a row of X's
    And she had to ask her father what the X's meant.
    And her father always tucked her into bed at night
    And was always there to do it

    On a pice of white paper with blue lines
    She wrote a poem
    And called it "Autumn"
    Because that was the name of the season
    And that's what it was all about.
    And her teacher gave her an A
    And asked her to write more clearly.
    And her mother never hung it on the kitchen door
    Because of it's new paint
    And the kids told her
    That Father Tracey smoked cigars
    And left the butts on the pews
    And sometimes thye would burn holes.
    That was the year her sister got glasses
    With thick lenses and black frames
    And the girl around the corner laughed
    When she asked her to see Santa Claus
    And her father never tucked her into bed at night
    And her father got mad
    When she would cry for him to do it.

    Once on a pice of paper torn from her notebook
    She wrote a poem
    And called it "Innocence: A Question"
    Because it was a question about her girl.
    And that's what it was all about.
    And her professor gave her an A.
    And a strange steady look.
    And her mother never hung it on the kitchen door
    Because she never showed her
    That was the year that Father Tracey died
    And she forgot how the end
    Of the Apostles Creed went
    And she caught her sister making out on the back porch
    And her mother never kiss
    Or even talk
    And the girl around the corner
    Wore too much makeup
    That made her cough when she kissed her
    But she kissed her anyway
    Because that was the thing to do
    And at three AM

    She tucked herself into bed
    Her father snoring soundly
    That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
    She tried another poem
    And called it "Absolutely Nothing"
    Because that's what it was really all about.
    And she gave herself an A
    And a slash on each damned wrist
    And she hung it on the bathroom door
    Because this time
    She didn't think
    She could make it to the kitchen.

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    Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

    Plato (BC 427-BC 347) Greek philosopher.

    silentcry09’s Poems (62)

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