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Useless
Olga Vaynkof
People have parts.
Some parts cater to concubines
and wield shovels after a wire hanger
childbirth stains the ecru carpet.
Ol' benefactor apparently noticed
some weight gain and pinched that gal's
plump- left an anomaly of a scar.
Her parts were scared he'd leave.
Stronger parts keep weaker ones
barefoot in the kitchen
while they warm the room indifferently,
waiting, patient as a savage, for the word.
Any word.
But some don't have those parts.
Other's parts have been spun
by some centrifugal force
and now stare at the ceiling
waiting for the stars to be gone -
and the cicadas are squealing and the
crickets have machine guns and the rest
is right on its way -
Still others love their parts
safe as loneliness.
Some lose parts rolling down hills
when they think mom's not looking.
They're just playing till their ear
latches on to what used to be a sapling.
It's strange when cries mimic laughter.
And when moms have parts that hurt
in ways I never can,
I wish I had her parts
and she wishes
she had mine.
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