Mom
by Richard E. Wehrenberg Jr.
i’ll hide the money in the secret pockets
that mom sewed in.
they’ll turn me upside down
in the hallway and peck their triangle noses
towards my circle face while my shirt falls over my head.
but their work is worth nothing:
that two-twenty-five is staying with me.
the seesaw will see me switching pant sizes
and the slide will curl and lick me up
w hen i fit just right.
i’ll hide in the rubber tire bits
by the swings and bury myself
while imitating radio station personalities.
the teachers will call me creative
and i’ll paint crude paintings in art class
that i didn’t know were crude.
they won’t be allowed
to be shown in the art show.
the bathroom stall will see me cry
as i resist my emerging
man-conditioning
in the only way i know how:
unknowingly.
the principal will enter and i will immediately feel better
when i see him try to pee in one of the kid urinals,
shrinking down to our size.
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