How to Whistle in Prison
What I thought I had was a memory
Of the day I met my uncle
For the first time; however, what I have is what must be
A collection of what other people have shared with me
Over the years. Each thread has merged
Into a single colorful yarn with repeated narrative
Patterns, shared images - the amusing combination
Of my candy-sticky little fingers and the tinsel;
How I carefully tried to place it back
On the tree, again and again and again,
But gave up with a sigh, and, after giving
A quick look around, swept it under the skirt
With my foot; in Mary Janes and my dress,
How I looked just like a China doll, dainty and
Neat; how my uncle ambitiously set out to teach me
How to blow bubbles with my gum and whistle that day.
Now I just think it's fun to be able to
Tell people I learned how to whistle in prison.
To read other poems or poetry-related posts on this blog, click here.