white-washed (2)
So then — he hit me.
With the palm of his hand,
to best protect his fingers.
He needed them
in proper working order,
to practice Bhrams on the piano.
He palm-struck me — perhaps not intentionally.
And I didn’t take it personally.
He was only father to me.
The art on the wall beckoned.
It said, “I could tell you a story,
if only you’d understand.”
And I thought, ‘Go on.’
But the wall stayed silent,
taunting me, ‘Oh, come on.’
With its pseudo-random lines,
it was more than I could ask for,
it aroused and mesmerised me.
“What are you here for?
What is your point?”
I was about to say something,
but the mural was faster:
“We both know you have no clue.”
“I must have misplaced it,” she said,
whether to the wall art or to Father,
I couldn’t say.
“That’s all right,” he replied,
“Let the son fetch us some cake,
while we keep looking.”
“Nothing bleeding,” I said,
“I can walk to the kitchen all right.”
