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

guessing.

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