Prodigal Parlour

By Balete Candice Lauren Garcia

He complains
in the way teenagers do
when they have absolutely nothing to
complain about except their

is how he feels:
Obtuse, jaded.

Placated, says he, am I
by ridiculous constraints!
I’m gonna take over the world,
and see.

You are an odd child,
his mother chides. Her gaze
hinted something sublime; he looked
again, but confined in their place were
simply dilated pupils, practiced grace.

But! Eyes cannot speak, and
tongues cannot see, said he.

He ignores the woman’s scrutiny,
embarks on adventures of epic proportions.

Distortion; his perception
is but in a rose-tinted

In a five minute kitchen
prance, an invisible hand
grabs his neck, sets him
back on track in the basket
for the kittens.

His mother purrs,
grooming his dejected fur.

At least you didn’t
meet the same end
your father did, when
he fancied to dream.

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