Party Girl Bites Guest

It's the birthday party where the party girl bites one of the little friends
and another one manages to tumble down the stairs. There's new toys
and a chocolate cake that nearly slid top layer off bottom because

the stove has a slant or is it the house? Perhaps mother's hands
are unsteady. There's 5 little candles on the cake and somebody's weeping
and wants to go home. It's the party where mother does her best

to keep all the kids from crying. It can go like that. The weep
get passed hand and to hand. Daughter pitches a fit. The children have had
their cake and ice cream, candy, that strange sugary air that wafts

from the mouths of children. Their hands sticky, and that rim around their lips.
How their hair smells of it at those parties. Sweat and Baby shampoo
and the little candies each one ate as fast as she could. Mother is in the front room

trying to change the tune. She bounces up and down. She's pinning the tail
on the donkey. There's no more prizes and it's time for piņata. The stick
in the hands of small children blindfolded. It's how the fun goes. Ten small

yips as the piņata breaks. Not enough sweet to go around. To glue them
where they need to get glued. All the way home, the children sticking
to what they touch. Fuzz between their fingers. Lint in their palms.

Carol Potter

Carol Potter is mother of two grown daughters who were bona fide "free-range" babies - seen, heard, disheveled, wild little hippie kids, and she is daughter of one 80 year old mother who has withstood the various shocks supplied by her own free-ranging children.

If you've any comments on this poem, Carol Potter would be pleased to hear from you.

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