Yijun
The Trophy
Five times he won the game
Five times he won the same trophy
And everytime his mother cried
Her happy tears as she dabbed
Hot iodine on his stinging wounds.
The smoke
He smelled thick in the air
Puffing
From his father's cigarette.
The belt around his waist still warm
From its recent use. The little mewls
Issued by the Baby One in the corner
Were no more a comfort
Then was the smell of angry smoke.
He was never the best.
Not from that first game in the school field.
He was pretty sure not of that now. Mother
Doesn;t know anything.
But Father was sure not to let him forget
That success is never final
And Failure is almost always fatal.
And death was not a question.
Are you dead? That is a question now.
He pulls the pillow away from the still head
That was still wheezing a moment ago.
He tucks the pillow under the head.
The eyes stare back, black and glaazed,
Unshaven chin gaping.
He takes one of his hundreds of
Trophies off the shelf
And thrusts it into the crook of the
Clammy arm on the bed. He walks out.
Outside, the corridor is warm.
He lights a cigarette, puffs its angry smoke,
Blows it out. Sometimes
He smokes without smoke.
"Can you tell us what inspired you
To take up this game?"
"I have only
My father to thank. Thank you."
And a brilliant flash of light from a camera
Catches his winning smile.
All work featured on this page are the copyrighted property of Yijun
The Poetry Page welcomes all manner of
creative writing from poets of many shapes and sizes. If you have
a verse or two you'd like to see published here, send them to The
Flying Penhandler.
Other Writers Who Have Been Published Here
Read This Issue of The Flying Inkpot
| Madame L'amour | | The Personals | | International Newspapers | | Zine Scene | | Move Links | | Book Links |