Young Master McGribe

Young Master McGribe, pride of his tribe, deploys to his job one inclement morning. It rains, it blows, it’s cold, it snows, and ice waxes the sidewalks with no warning. Stepping out of the auto he’s driven so safely, touching foot to curb, he falls smack on his arse, bounds back up immediately, head turning each way, but his luck is good and witnesses are sparse. No threats to his dignity detected, he appears unaffected save for subtle massaging of each cheek, and he enters his building with hearty hellos artfully designed to make his fellows seem meek. He moves through the day in his own special way, a flagship in calm waters, so swift, so sleek. Females adore him, male competitors abhor him, but neither love nor respect does he seek. Superiors give pats on the back and words of praise for his braving the storm and performing a job so stellar, but what surprise would appear in their eyes if they knew he just longs for his cellar. On his way home he buys some chips, he buys some dip. he buys some caramel ice cream, but when he steps through his door food is forgotten, and to the basement he sets steam. It is dark as he makes his way down the stairs, but he knows on the right are his rifles, not for the hunt, but assault style, for Master McGribe is not one with whom trifles. He moves lovingly among them, the grenades, the handguns with banana-shaped clips, and for all his praise, for all his success, they are what bring smiles to his lips. For what really is power, what really is might, will he find fame as barrister or cotter? Master McGribe of his dignified tribe will someday show them all with a slaughter. Interviews will fill the news, his parents will tell of a good boy to the core, neighbors will concur he was a quiet lad. but no one knew his desire for more.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

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