A Family (A Slam Poem)
My mother cannot stand the sound of fingernails scratching on paper napkins.
And just like you can always count on the evening to scrape the mountaintops and bleed sunsets,
Whenever someone has an urge to trace their mind's ramblings on to a napkin with their finger,
Her eyes sharpen like a bee stinger,
Sending a wave of venom over the dinner,
Hoping the offender gets the picture.
I guess, for her, nails on napkins are nightmare symphonies,
But we all have our idiosyncrasies,