My son was having a meatball moment
Rolling meatballs down the stairs
Asking, "Dad, Dad, why don't meatballs have brakes?"
I thought hard
Rubbing my beard with my index finger that had some
Lingering soup on the nail
"They do, but they don't know how to use them"
I replied, rather satisfied with myself.
Mom had left the house an hour ago and
We needn't her affirmation that the house was in a state of
Living curious enticement
That purifying rites could not just wisk away
"Can you spray the house with Lysol just once more?"
My grandmother's voice was calling.
For some, the encrusted meatballs on the stair's carpet
Could deliver a fly swat of disgust
(Would you stir your tea with a fly swatter that had been used?)
Sure there were times of festive belligerence when, as a youngster,
I reveled in the chewing gum stuck to my father's favorite painting
"You are cruel and insidious" he told me, his finger waving at all of
My five years
Not long after I decided to be a student of evolution
Following Darwin's steps was ambitious yet
I wanted to know why he said
One is disgusted more by meat then by apples
And "Here, smell it"is a necessary ritual
For humans to confirm that what is revolting is
Disgusting and
Vica Versa we, as a society, must share, to affirm
Solidify and revivify the moment so vile
That a meatball will be imagined as dog poop
Just for the excitement so
That it should remain
Encrusted
In memory
In the carpet
Forever.
