Before I died in that house fire,
I was what my grandma called
a little comedian. I found I could
twist my mouth and rub
my round kid belly in such a way
people found it funny.
That laughter — like Cheetohs
and Ding-Dongs to my soul.
Before the fire I had already
perfected one routine: what happened
that time my dad caught me smoking.
I pantomimed taking a whole pack of cigarettes
and fitting it in my mouth —
the lighter torching the ends,
me plucking out the twenty with both hands
and blowing a giant smoke ring like a bigwig.
But the funny part of the act,
and I swear it’s true, my skin really turned green
and I’d get woozy, stumble around like a cartoon cat
just hit on the head by a fry pan.
It’s strange, but when I’d lie in bed
I could see a pedestal
like at the Olympics, way off in the future,
and I was standing on it,
high as the seat on one of those old timey bikes
with the giant front wheel.
And then I died.
So intriguing Bill. I like your entry into the poem. I’m with this little fellow and want to know more. The poem is surrealistic and has a dash of funny and a dollop of sadness and loss. I’m not sure you need that last line but I love the poem!
Thanks Linda, the feedback is greatly appreciated.
A lot of unpack. Yes, surreal but an underlying dose of reality. Thanks for this.
Thanks for the comment, Allen.
Great story telling (showing) from a to z.
Oh yikes what a story. You’ve got me, I also want to know more
Maybe more to come, you never know! Thanks for the comment.
I love the perspective in this poem. The details are wonderful, and I agree about dropping the last line. Very engaging writing/storytelling!
Thank you, Sylvia. It’s appreciated.
Bill, nice poem I sense what living life can do to us, plenty of great pictures in your details.
Thank you, Jess. Appreciate the comment.