UNCLE CARBUNCLE
He died in 1961. He had two left hands,
but handled a hammer well - wishing for
soups and nuts, he often drank gruel instead,
a watery fashion of broth, marked by nothing
and textured only with vapid air. From the top
of his head, I'd noticed once, grew two stubs
of antennae - television, Martians, motivations
from above? He'd never answer; he'd never say.
Why a ten-year old kid would even ask about
things no one else seemed to see was a question
by of and of itself - the oldsters and parents sat
around tables, house to house, visiting each other.
Late afternoons, they'd talk on Sundays about the
things to come, the Mondays and the Tuesdays to
be. Or they'd talk of shows they saw, or who said
what, and how cruel that man could be, or that
singer who swiveled his hips - all that crazy,
grown-up stuff. Uncle Carbuncle just sat,
almost playfel, he never said a word. Nor
did anyone else, as I've noted. 'Hey, Carbie,
what's that shit on your head? What you
got growing there, antlers?' I guess, I
mean, it could have been funny, no?
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