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On the couch, I begin mending a pillow’s tattered corner; (the puppies defeated foe)
On the couch, he sits jibber jabbering and chitter chattering…
He’s rambling about all of his many escapades; this one and that one..
He’s bustling about all of his conquests. How he beat this one and that one… HIM “The Undefeated Champion”.. The “Victor Victorious”.
Strong and Mighty
Big and Broad
“Umph…umm hmm.” I graciously nod, while threading in and out..
“I had him by his throat… I beat the crap out of that stupid son of a bitch…I kicked him..and slapped the shit out of him…talking to me; like he lost his mutha-fucking mind..”
“Umm hmmm” I moan.
(Desperately seeking more of my attention)
He speaks of his riches and wealth..
He boasts about his “fleet” of cars… His priceless artifacts; all of his expensive gems from this place and that place.
All of his globe trotting journeys; spit from his thick tongue, and how he met this celebrity and that one..
Occasionally, glancing up from the pillow; I continue to weave.. in and out..and out and in.
“Such a beautiful, peaceful process” I think. “Ah, sewing”.
The background factory Elephant shit that he keeps producing, I desperately try to tune out..
In and out I sew, the silver, shiny, needle firm between my fingers.
“I did this… I’m gonna do that.”
“Umm..hmm.” I deeply exhale..
“Almost finished” I think. I plucked the string, fluffed the pillow, and tucked it behind me..
“Umm..hmm.” I say mimicking…while re-threading the needle
and…..
In one GIANT LEAP; like Superman.. I flew into the air and did a half-second turn… and… like Michael Jordan, I dunked that needle in the center of his top-lip straight down to the bottom.
I moon-walked with the needle like Michael Jackson…I sang with it like Billy Holiday…
“I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee” I shouted… I AM Muhammad Ali!
I sutured in and out….fast like lightening..fast like a cheetah
…at the final thread, I snipped like the worlds greatest surgeon….and…
like Jesse James, I swung my scissors around my pointer..blew of the steam, and shoved them into my back pocket..
Like Nadia Comaneci, I flipped backwards (missing the coffee table) and spun into the air with shiny weapon held high…just like the boy Arthur in “The Sword in the Stone”…
Then, I slammed my faithful weapon on the floor and shouted “Touch Down!” and did my twinkle-toes football dance..
……He didn’t know what hit him.
Mantra 