Sweetness Is Stickiness

I have this thing, you know.
Passed down and caught
and chained to it as well.

Hands must be clean
and hair brushed straight
so that each one will be
quite equidistant from its mates.

Shoes always rest in parallel,
one must be certain about symmetry.
Thus, it is no surprise to me
and those who walk with me
that I detest the smallest dropp
of stickiness, or damp upon the skin,
be that on legs or more protected parts.

She'd half expected me to use the time
to cuddle or tell old time tales,
though I was quite pre-occupied.

It would, I had observed it once,
dry on its own and fade away,
seemingly into open space
from a forbidden zone at that.

There was, inside my mind, no qualm
with the logistics of the chemistry,
that would be tied to certain laws,
as legs support a living body
and hair allows for steam and turbulence.

Yet, nothing realistic had prepared
this greenhorn for the lengthy interval
that sticky residue would make
its awful presence felt, I shudder
at the very thought and see, today
the eyes of grandma, stoic, green and stern,
unspoken words commanding me,
belligerence inside the lederhosen
the Edelweiss, seal of a secret room
a leather flap now standing guard
for petty jewels with early hopes.

The pie itself was of the noblest kind,
with layers of pink flowers and cold cream,
it was the sugar, it would stick against all rules
for little boys and, so much later, for some fools.

by Herbert Nehrlich

Comments (2)

Thanks, Tara, I was afraid you would know. H
Dammit. I'd sure fail the test. And I know what you mean, too. (Pink is a good colour though) . t x