My father held a finger in the air
and wiggled it.
He said, “Bet you can’t
laugh at that”
A sad, stone core tempted him
whose molecules were guilt,
inverted wit, a cynic’s playfulness.
His finger festered it;
I sang it on
Until the finger stopped its play;
laughter turned maniacal.
No more insane, loose fun.
The prankster lost
the last wild toss;
now I am sole Boss of the Game.
19 February 1995
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