Billy believed he’d found the world’s weirdest
Toy in dad’s dresser drawer, fleshy,
Vein-clawed, doused with Vaseline as though
Throbbing from a boo-boo—
He waved it overhead like a foam finger
During the Buccaneers game on Sunday afternoon,
Shouted “dee-fense!” with all the joy he could muster.
When he saw dad walk in already lit from his post-work beer run
He lifted it like a trophy and proclaimed “foam fing-ahhh!”
In a pirate-like snarl, strange considering the missing “r.”
Dad’s eyes lunged like moccasins as he shoved Billy
From the coffee table and snatched the toy away,
Repeating, “That’s not a damned finger;”
He wagged it like a peach tree switch
And traced the outlines of syllables with his swollen tongue.
We couldn’t believe it, even as we slowly understood,
The finger morphing into something like the shadow
Of a penis in Plato’s cave. From that moment on,
When we invaded dad’s dresser in search of change
We left it alone, struggling not to think of it,
Partly concealed by business socks, as an amputation.