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Tom's Poetry |
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Loose SkinThe itching's awfulwhen I meet you at your parents door, but I tap my skin into place and button down my sleeves and collar tight. At the dinner table, your little brother spots my left ear slipping and says it must be love. My skin turns red and I have to hold my hair just to keep from falling apart. Without even noticing, you tell your brother to shut up and eat. With a spoonful of oatmeal, suddenly my hand falls off into a plate of milk, like a glove. Your mind's on conversation, but your mother smiles as I slide my hand back on and wipe it clean. With a wink she says, I think it's time we left you two alone. We go to watch TV, but I'm shedding patches of skin with every step. When we're alone, you turn around and gasp, and there I am, exposed, my heart beating against my rib cage, my lungs straining for air. I try to apologize, but in this naked state, it must seem insincere. You suggest I just pick up my skin and leave. Walking out the front door with my armful of embarrassment, I try to make apologies again, and I think, hey, why don't we go see a movie? But bitterly you answer, Tom, why can't we just be friends? (C) 2/21/98 Tom Brinck ACCESSIBILITY FEATURES / SITEMAP / CONTACT |
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Poetry