He was a boy then,
Not more than five or six,
Told to be careful
He kicked, or slapped, or swatted
His cup of hot chocolate
Onto the floor
Of the Rockefeller Center.
It was performance art,
Chocolate spreading on white marble.
A sticky brown ameba
Oozing menacingly toward
Sleeves, shoes, pant legs.
It’s fiendish goal to leave indelible stains
That would have to be explained.
I offered a fresh hot chocolate,
Replacing the one that had been
Kicked, or slapped, or swatted
By my little boy
Whose face twitched a sadistic grin
His light blue sweater reveling
a snakelike brown stain on the cuff.
He lives in Manhattan now.
We visit and he warns me
Not to call his guests Sweetie, Sugar, Hun, Dude, or Man.
I fail,
Blurting out “Thanks Hun”
After my wine glass is refreshed.
His manicured teal fingernail
Stabs with accusation
Of yet another abuse
of binary pronouns.
My wife provides:
a subtle squeeze at my elbow,
a pat on my knee,
a soft shushing sound.
Momentarily confused
I am chastened.
Do I smile sadistically?
No.
I see empathy on the faces of his young guests
They have parents too.
November 8, 2021