Out Of Whack Poem by David Floren

Thick office chatter slips
From “if I had my druthers…”
To gripes about mothers.

Sandra indicted hers who
Babysat an uptight toddler.
Locked the imp in her closet.

“My mom is whack! ”
spoke Phil, a temp, a bit
flustered and whacked out

From taking fruitless whacks
at whacking back
the black thought.

The black thought:
His mom is whack.
Not just any old whack.

Defined as eccentric folk,
Whose acts are seldom
Whacker than yours.

A killer, by comparison,
Whacks because someone
Asks and someone answers,

Snubs most whys for facts
As spoils get whacked
The tactic - exact.


Phil has agreed,
With his inner doubter.
He’s not whacked out.

No controlled substance
Fogs his numb assurance.
“My mom is whack! ”

Those who heard
Endured a whack
In the region of the heart.

Phil’s basis? None.
As the sun shines outside
We all turn to speculation,

Under the glum fluorescents
(unwilling to press) ,
dumb evanescence

It might seem wacky
To build weighty statements
On “whack” abutments

But bad is too vague.
And adding very
sharpens nothing.

So tell us why you think
Mom’s so whack,
Phil.


[3-13-06, Santa Rosa]