Bonehead, Sit Here
Chris Elliott
Bonehead hides under the tablecloth.
Bonehead hides his boots in a drawer.
The one simple truth of being a bonehead:
You don’t want to be a bonehead no more.
One day bonehead got up his gumption
To climb on the train and ride to the sea.
On the edge of the dock he spit in the water
At fish heads that gaped, yammering free
To nibble the bait or turn from the baiter,
They mouths saying mama. Mama they mouth,
Mama or papa. Bonehead wonders
What mama and papa would think of him now
With his ear muffs and muffler in mitten-shaped Michigan
Worn by the wind, the thrust of his thumb
Towards the blue lake, dreams full of grandeur
Such that the bonehead shall never become.
The egghead charts his equations in chalk,
The warhead aims where the enemy was,
But the bonehead has neither black board nor broad sword,
Condemned to do as the dunderhead does,
Scrubbing the rust from his lawnmower blades,
Drawing a star on the fin of a shark
He sketched on the placemat, trying to think
Of a perfectly cruel and clever remark
Boldly to wield at a corporate function
In defense of his honor, or bride in dismay
At the dragons and army of Igors, whose dungeons
Resemble the company’s luncheon today.
Bonehead sit here. Don’t talk. Be merry
Like it or not. No matters can fill
The hole in the bonehead’s weary befuddlement.