There's a little good in the worst of us.
A little bad in the best of us.
What about the rest of us?
What about us?
Neither the best nor the worst.
I might pass the test but I won't be first.
I've never had a thirst for the world to see my face.
I know my place.
Is that good or bad?
Should I be sad or glad
I'm not handsome as Dad?
Mom was an artist.
Though she did her best to
suppress creative action,
fits of painting possessed her and
every window of the house told
a story of color and spirit and
blood worth much more than the
standard thousand word
minimum.
I was proud of her till the neighbors
laughed and put a smoke bomb into
our window unit.
The coolant and fan pushed ashen vapor
into the front room and Mom started
screaming, “The house is on fire. It's
on fire.”
Kids were standing on the sidewalk
mocking her and shouting, “Your
pictures are dumb.”
I thought about hitting them with my
brother's baseball bat till Mom
called me into the house and said, “Turn
off the air and help me
wash these windows.”
Well said