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{ the sweetest bee makes the thickest honey. }
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Maybe it's the fact that you, yourself, were once as cheeky as this boy. Or that, like an autumn breeze, the poem stirs up leaves of memories lodged somewhere deep within your brain, near your sense of smell. Whatever it is, when you're reading "Little Boys," you get the distinct feeling that you're in safe hands. For more information about all of "Little Boys" advanced safety and security features, read on.
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Little Boys
Squozen to be a maximum, and the only one at all
A tender vicious kid
Serrated teeth underneath flushed lips
Crass in the bathroom, demure around the good china
There was always something missing, presumed lost, but which was actually broken by
feisty bitter hands.
He craves the trash-talking rascists, that they infiltrate all those restrained hallways,
upturning chaise-lounges in their wake.
Let the ones with the daggers and the bloody fingernails bear the brunt of the anger and blame.
You in the back, clumsily maneuvering amoung the tablecloths, brass fish and models of gleaming black mares, whinnying through your wide nostrils. The filigree on the silver trays you carry hide the hangnails and broken skin on your fingers. Better let them grasp the crudit?s tenderly, between perhaps gloved index and thumb. They were always civil and endearing when they could be, when it wasn't embarrassing.
Too many times he had chased the mare around the stables, upsetting buckets of water to make the barn dust mud. Too many times he has won back the allegiance of his former supporters with the ruddiness in his cheeks after a toussle.
Flying locks and blond streaking. Everything had its pretense and its base reality; they reveled in crassness for its pulsating bloodness.
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