You say there was this bad time, during the war.

“During the war.” Am I expected to know what that means?

To me the war was a time where I had plastic toys,

danced them in sardine tins,

and then cried at night on the carpet, not because I was sad,

and not because I chose the carpet to cry on,

but only because I was a baby, and we cry a lot, wherever we can.

The war looks like those silly signs you make at me through the window.

Except, from what I know about war,

the window would be smeared in blood and you would make toothless signs

with a blown out shell of a head.

Everything I know about war comes from sardine tins,

and war bond advertising on Saturday morning cartoons.

Gosh I hate sardines, but they’re good for me,

and you make me eat them.

You say when Dad went away,

that was during the war,

that was a bad time,

and all those are empty to me. Sort of like the ugly socks grandmother bought me, and I never ever wear.

I’m a boy and I don’t like elephants or pink things.

And I don’t like sardines.

But you said Dad was a no-good rascal,

and that the house smiles so wide it creaks now that he’s gone,

which I guess explains why everything is falling apart,

why you never make sandwiches any more,

why the roof leaks and rats are everywhere,

and why,

when you think I’m not listening,

you complain to the insurance agent that things have gone to Hell in a handbasket.

That still doesn’t explain why the Devil does groceries dressed like a girl.