THE LITTLE THINGS

What would account

for the harsh clap of the cleaver

through the bone

and onto the board?

the mortality of a parent?

no fresh milk?

misplaced documents?

a dropped contact lens:

this is what gives the asylum its roster.

Not the clipped puppy, exactly,

but who left the door open in the first place

and how they live their next day.

If a bent key in a frozen lock

is the avalanche that took your friend,

it is obvious what finally split the marrow:

malpractice.

the lesions.

bad produce.

a book on back order.

PROBLEM CHILD

You look for the meaning in manuals,

in instructions and theatre programs.

The hidden metaphor

in a list of ingredients,

the stick of gum

on the back of an SAT booklet.

'Frankenstein' is what Shelley wrote

on a dare, you said. And if that masterpiece

was the offspring of serendipity,

we had no right to ask you

to mow the lawn, curtailing your boredom

with a fixed set of events—

leaving you no time to 

dissect your kaleidoscope

into concepts of basic geometry.

There were always the dots and the dashes,

but we just assumed you were careless:

leaving the knife in the mayonnaise;

getting crumbs on your notebook of theorems.