robert dickerson - Pinata I

Elder

Child, put down that stick-
leave that pinata alone
of folded crepe and glitter beads.
Look how it swings so gently on the breeze
knotted to that fork in the tree's way:
if you fixed a candle in it
it might double nicely as a Chinese lantern.
So let's just sit here and watch it waggle
pasted on the air before the lake
back-grounded by that mountain peak and star.

Younger

No, it's my birthday
and the pinata is mine all mine!
Frankly it makes me tired to see just
how the wind lifts and lets it down;
frankly it makes me drowsy to see
how the silly thing rocks back and forth
like a soundless, clapper-less bell,
irksome as the metronome on my piano at home-
whose sing-song tyranny I refuse (though good it's intent,
doubtless) and I know one thing-
the pinatas bulb is full of candy and cracker-jack toys
(pinatas always are)
that spill out to brave boys
who can give them a sound whack
fissuring papery tissues
spilling out lots of caramels in golden wrappers
each a small bow-tie. Mints
and chocolate, darks and light, foil-folded,
oozing, bitten into, creams and jellies,
boats with off-white sails, little silver whistles

robert dickerson

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