Ornery

In my favorite family story, I am age four,
seated across a long table from my grandfather,
not yet noticing his resemblance to Zeus
or some other lightning-tossing deity.
I am wearing my favorite apron, unaware
that it is actually a bib. Grandpa, however,
has eyes in his head, and tries to enlighten me.
“It’s a bib,” he says. “It’s an apron,” I insist.
“A bib!” “An apron!” “A bib!” “An apron!”
“A BIB!” “AN APRON!” until the storm cloud
bursts and I wail “You’re always picking on me!”
Victory is mine, and my vanquished foe
concedes, “All right, goddammit!
It’s an apron!”

The NaPoWriMo challenge was “a family anecdote,” so, inspired by BartBarker, I wrote about my favorite.

And then, in an adaptation of the next NaPoWriMo challenge, I turned the above poem upside-down.

“It’s an apron!”
“All right, goddammit!” concedes
my vanquished foe and victory is mine.
“You’re always picking on me!” bursts
the storm cloud: “A bib!” “An apron!”
“A bib!” “An apron!” “A BIB!” “AN APRON!”
“It’s a bib,” he says. “It’s an apron,” I insist.
Grandpa, however, has eyes in his head,
and tries to enlighten me, as I am unaware
that my favorite apron is actually a bib,
not yet noticing his resemblance to
Zeus or some other lightning-tossing deity,
my grandfather, seated across a long table.
In my favorite family story, I am age four.

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