Thank you to those who support me via my Paypal account: The government doesn't read my poetry. You do. Out of over 370 poems here on this blog by me, I hope you find one or more you like.

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Friday, April 1, 2016

Lobster in the Pines

It was the only place
I could think as a child,
which was a time
of confusion.

My Father was addicted
to optometry, scotch, golf,
socializing, telling jokes,
his own masculinity,
and proving he knew
more about everything
than you. Oh, and Nixon.

My Mother was addicted
to singing, clothes, fabric,
reading, spending money, socializing,
proving she was
more feminine than Jesus,
and dragging me
to shoe stores, clothing stores,
fabric stores, and choir practice.

My Brother was addicted
to reading science fiction,
math, silence, and auto mechanics.
It was the only way he could
deal with our parents.

I was addicted to confusion,
trying to please my mother,
and wondering why
my father sided with her
when she said I shouldn't
play baseball because
it would hurt my hands.
I was nine and crushed.
So I further became addicted
to food, an opaque shell,
sex, marijuana, alcohol,
writing, lying, and shame.

My addictions
have worked well to this day
which keeps my children,
my friends,
and anyone I might love
Nobody cracks
my hard shell,
which is why
I am a crustacean.

They should throw me
in a boiling pot
when I die
and have a beach party
with beer and salad,
somewhere in the pines,
which isn't a beach party
so all the guests
can be confused.

Barry G. Wick

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