Anthony Bianco Poet Free verse

Grease on the Stone

I was more of a stepping stone than a stepson.
A tiny stone leading to the heart of my father.

You played the game well... though
squeezing a ring from the coal of his lonely heart.

So, there I was minced by little boy blue grief.
Then tossed into your beehive whirlwind.
You wisely hid your wicked side...young bride...
Many times, playing hopscotch on my hide.

The lessons to make me into a man.
Started around six, I recollect.
Scrubbing those greasy plastic dishes
until they were no longer slick.
You knew that it was an impossible task
for six-year-old hands.
So over and over and over again. 
You'd plop that greasy plastic back into the suds...
until well past dusk... 
(Now, even as a man, it's always well past dusk.}
I became more like your whetstone.
Something to sharpen your barbs upon.  

I'm still waiting for karma to change the color of your hide.
Make you scrub a freighter filled with your greasy plastic dishes.

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