Dust under the Rug
How
Mom loved that tale
of
“Dust under the Rug,”
with
all its didactic
clamor
and finger-shaking
accompaniment
to
instill fear in her
dopey
kids, that is, me
and
my little sister.
Sis
was a sucker
for
such dire threats and took
them
to heart, while I shook
them
off with precocious
cynicism.
My mind
translated
“dust” into
gunk,
crud, dirt, crap, trash,
or
roach carcasses, mouse
turds,
squashed peas, and, older,
into
lines of metered prose
memoir
poems, neo-
Beat
bombast – other stuff
I
then stuffed under the rug.
Kawagarasu
in
Japanese
are
the Big and Little Dippers
or
Ursa Major and Minor,
seen
by the Greeks as bears.
Would
we love them more as
Momma
Bear and Baby Bear,
Teddy’s
that inspire insipid
cartoons
and commercials,
Or
do we embrace them
because
they seem close enough
to
dip water from a barrel and pour
it
into a glass or because
they
are so terribly far away?
“Boss”
The ticket taker says, “Thanks, Boss,”
The laundry man says, “No starch, Boss,”
The cleaning lady says, “Next time, Boss,”
And you grate at being called “Boss,”
Because you used to be a soda jerk,
gas-pump jockey, delivery boy –
The Reporter-Dispatch, special-
delivery mail, pharmacy prescriptions –
and got chased by the snarling Doberman
in the yard (“Don’t worry—he’s quite friendly!”)
and called “You Fock” by your rotten boss,
so you smile and squash the urge to say, “Don’t
call me ‘Boss,’” and squelch the itch to
reply, “You’re welcome, Mother Fucker.”
