7200
While meditating
earlier today,
a flashback leapt
clear for
me to assay,
those ever
receding
early boy
hood daze,
now subsumed
within fifty,
plus nine
shades of gray
blissfully
innocent naivety,
(though
blessed) no way
would, aye
desire to
turn back
the hands of
father time
(hypothetically),
where
unstructured play
regularly with
older sister
(thirteen plus months
my senior)
predominantly
slicing, sliding,
and slipping
stockinged
feet skittering
across slippery
basement floor,
this then soul full
skinny thing
bellowed hooray.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"I'm Matty Mattel;
I got hurt;
Can you
go out?"
Those
words uttered
by the
very first
pull-string
talking doll
Mattel did tout
circa nine
teen sixty
revolutionizing
the birth
of quasi simulated
(lifelike) toys,
and made
of common
materials
found scout
ting around
the house
simply comprising
hard vinyl
(i.e. pseudo
plaster of Paris)
head he
did flout
with remaining body
stuffed
with padding,
a definite no
no (chew toy)
when Fido about.
Actually
that pooch,
would be
Georgie to you,
(a hybrid
Boxer Dalmatian)
with docked tail
my young
parents acquired,
when as
a newborn,
aye did
inconsolably wail
though recollection
of such memory
fifty nine
years ago
tis of no avail
yet, a resumption
of meditation,
sans light
ness of being
(analogous trance
like state),
that doth prevail
replaying silent
film preceding,
when psyche
seem so frail
plummeting into
emotional abyss
the nadir i.e.
anorexia nervosa
pleading return
to nostalgic boyhood
decrying change
hide didst bewail!
