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Sweet Willie Wields a Knife

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  • Sweet Willie Wields a Knife


    “We’re all out of Coke, Mother dear.”
    Those tasteless words, so severe—
    “Out of Coke.”
    My goodness, the knife delves deep.

    She’s slicing, slicing,
    precisely dicing
    A sumptuous pear
    For her baby.
    She pares, pauses, then pivots on me
    And warns with a flair of her knife,
    “This one’s for Baby.”
    Then to make her point further,
    She hands me another,
    A bruised, misshapen old thing.

    She points to her pear,
    “I’ve taken such care
    Cause Baby’s so special to me.”
    Of course I despair, then totally aware
    She just doesn’t care
    Much for me.
    And as I grow older, that love will grow colder.
    I despair, what will happen to me?

    But, despite the slight, I recover,
    Respond with a radiant remark.
    “That’s quite alright, Wilhelmina.
    About the Coke tonight.
    You know how I love them.
    No doubt, I devoured the last.”
    Clearly, my love for Coke surpassed
    By my love for Sweet Wilhelmina.

    For I misspoke.
    There’s not been Coke.
    There’s been none, not a one
    That she’s purchased for me.
    Despite how easy that’d be.

    Nevertheless, I still want a Coke
    And poke in the fridge with a glimmer of hope.
    “Oh, Mom, is it all that important?
    The Coke I am talking about.”
    Her steely eyes glaring at me.
    Thrusting, thrusting, abruptly adjusting
    To rest on my body so low.
    Her insolent words
    Fiercely piercing my feelings.
    But I compose myself against her blows.
    Feelings I resolve never to disclose.
    “Of course not, sweet daughter of mine.
    Believe me, Sweet Willie, I’m fine.”

    “Oh, Mom, have Slice, won’t that suffice?”
    My goodness that knife delves so deep.
    Poking, poking, thoughtlessly provoking
    My anger at Sweet Welhelmina.
    But
    She seems contrite, about the slight
    The Coke I am talking about.
    So I sip the Slice while she recites
    “I love you, sweet Mother, goodnight.”
    She’s being polite, and I know it’s not right.
    She just wants me to tend Baby.
    They’re not the Real Thing—
    The love or the Slice.
    They’re simply not the Real Thing.
    But I steel my thoughts.
    After all, it’s my fault.
    She’s never been taught to be grateful.
    She’s selfish, not hateful.
    No doubt she cares for me.
    There’s nothing to fear.
    Our bond is strong.
    Nothing can sever our love.
    And about the Coke,
    Her lack’s not a sign
    Of her lack of love for me.
    It’s not by design. . .
    No not by design.
    Surely
    Sweet Willie, I’m fine.
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