A hundred color bits.
What was once a plastic cup becomes one hundred colored bits
and he who wields the scissors with a smile
verge of a laugh – a cackle – sparkling eyes
You’ll stop me, he seems to say,
You’ll be unhappy with this!
the intense frustration pouring out of my body
the drug on which he is tripping.
shreds of plastic
cover the table, and the boy with scissors chops
not too quietly
while the speaker speaks
at a church supper.
I say “Not too loud -it has to be quiet -”
and he hears.
And life goes on, somehow
with bits of plastic,
on the banquet table cloth.
Afterward my friend asks, “How did it go with Owen?”
And I say “You tell me”
she says “I didn’t hear him at all”
can it be that everyone understands
the boy with the scissors
and his bits?