Smooth play, Ox

My brother often directed

These words

To me:

“Smooth play, ox.”

Did he mean ox long pips

Which may be smooth but

My backhand was not.

Black ox beetles were

Nocturnal while

I preferred sunshiny mornings.

We were two skinny kids.

Santana had yet to sing Smooth.

Smooth Play members weren’t

Twinkles in anyone’s eyes.

When he said these words,

I was never

Playing.

I had tripped

Or broken my arm

Falling as he pushed me on

Our money bar swing-set.

His mocking tone

Incensed me.

Finally, I’d had it.

Jutting my chin in the air

I stared down my nose at

The dunce.

“It just so happens

Oxen are not redheaded girls.

If I am a breed of cattle,

I am a proud Highland,

whose red coat

Is adorably fluffy!”

Well…

I wish I had said that

As I stared into his

Mischievous blue

Blue eyes.