Son of a Bitch
Sitting in my wheelchair, examining my early days,
I recollect a phone call from my father. "Hello", I said.
I heard a strangled hiss, "Son of a Bitch!". This wrathful phrase
he said again. "Son of a Bitch!". "What's wrong?" I asked with dread.
He spoke, "You were just here". This was true, my shower didn't drain,
so I had sought the use of his. "You left down the toilets top".
True too, I sat to don my clothes. "I was cooking quiche lorraine",
and timing counts to add ingredients. I couldn't stop,
so when the urge to poop came on, I stalled as best I could,
then ran for it. Unfastening my pants, I sat, let fly,
and smushed crack down upon a slimey pile of goosh. I would
twist your neck, and make you eat the quiche that burned while I
cleaned up crap, and cursed your ass, you wretched Son of a Bitch!
As I was miles away from him, I laughed until I choked.
50 years since then, and still it finds the funny bone. The rich
vignettes of memory, makes old folk smile, as if God told a joke.