It Flew By Me
The home-grown potato
Came flying across the long country kitchen table.
It flew by me before I saw it.
Mom had just boiled two dozen.
We were a big family.
Dad once said he could have
Been a major league pitcher.
The potato smashed in my older brother’s face.
Suddenly I believed my dad.
I never believed what he said,
Not because he lied, but because he was angry
Most of the time.
I was only six, too young
To make such distinctions. I still doubt angry men—
Woman less so;
Hard to see the truth through enraged eyes.
The bicycle had a flat tire for days
Dad said leave it—I got it.
Seven days in a row
Only bike we could afford.
“Dad, let me fix it.”
Really, Dad!
Toss a hot potato for that?
I kept my mouth shut
Told myself, “You are only six.”
Fool or coward?
Next day I rode the bike
Over to my friend’s yard.
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