Day 11 [7:18-7:23, 8:30-8:59 am]
No prompt. Random thoughts this morning (I have no idea where they came from):
My mom trained me to stay out of her purse. I don’t even go into my wife’s without feeling like I’m doing something wrong, taboo, disrespectful.
I don’t like reading other people’s poetry. I tend to judge. Judge style, judge content. Judge rhythm and rhyme. And spelling, and grammar, and word choice, and lines being forced…
Why I’m Averse to Reading Other People’s Poetry
My mom trained me
to stay out of her purse.
There were no direct death threats,
though they may have been implied
by a stare that would have felled
the stoutest of men.
To this day
should I venture into my wife’s purse,
even with her permission,
I feel I’m peeking into deeply
personal territory, forbidden
areas to the eyes of the male;
like I’m sneaking into the cookie jar,
or shoplifting from the local grocer,
or reading an aunt’s diary,
or a Playboy in the bathroom.
When I am required
to retrieve some item
from its hallowed depths,
I get in and get out,
averting my eyes from everything
not pertinent to my search,
trying not to judge
whatever else I may see.
Copyright © 2016 Scott Daniel Massey