“- el caramelo, y su boca”

When they give you the sweet 

And then they take it away,

Is the best.

When they give you the treat 

And then retreat to higher reality,

Is the rest.

When they made out you were the crest

And you knew they were doing it bad,

Is the test.

And when your bold treasure chest

Reverts to cold actuality,

Is on their behest.

Your son was right

In everything he warned;

In everything he trawled;

In everything he stormed;

In everything he cajoled and told, and would’ve had you do.

Wisdom lies – in truth – with youth,

And you, yourself, are no

Longer young,

Nor reside in any location with a right

To vocation.

But no matter.

No issue.

No fissure.

No fight or sight or height.

You escaped – in fact – in time: sound and safe

From the rounding clutches of


It’s OK.

I’m OK.

A spectator was your roll all along.

And the rock you

Once loved so dearly,

And which so nearly 

Convinced you more,

Confirms your remaining shreds and stripes

Of outrageous perspicacity:

The uncanny reception

Is over.

The wake begins.

The coffin is nailed.

The dust is recaptured.

And they were wrong when they thought, so sneakily,

They ought to be able to beat you 

with the game: 

The game of all other; the game of all

Mother – el caramelo, 

y su boca.

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