Charles

CHARLES HAS SOME RELATIVES OVER FOR DINNER,
TRIES TO HAVE A CONVERSATION,
BUT IS SENT UP TO HIS ROOM
by cynthia ring
Math problems take the backseat in a flat-tire jalopy—they press their noses to the window, and fog it up with countless Charles-makes-a-fool-of-himself breaths.
In other words, they laugh till they roll on the burgundy carpet.
Pre-date jitters grab hold of his necktie and pull it snug to see-here composure,
And of course, a lap full of tennis balls.
The first pitch was a curveball that Auntie Beth’s pupils couldn’t pick up amid those dazed cataracts that spread up to her fizzled grey head.
The second was a screwball—Uncle Jim had to bury his face in his porridge so it wouldn’t smash his thick-rimmed glasses already patched up with layers of scotch tape.
The third was a fastball that found its mark—Dad’s nose…go to your room.
It’s only half past seven, and Charles has his mahogany mothball bed all to himself.
Boredom oozes from every pore while a pair of tassel shoes fall to the floor…
He kisses the back of his own hand, rehearsing for the black and white day when he’ll nail a strapless dress girl while under stiff mattress covers, and write a script’s punch line in the correct margin: are you ready, then laugh up love.
Good thing he keeps mistletoe in the top dresser drawer—
Girl, run-through, same difference, math problems wish they knew English mixed in with their slop dog food, that’s your funeral.
Charles, you’re high on nonsense. But you’re nice.