Mother Knows Best

Mother Knows Best

Late again, boxed in behind blue-hairs,
going seven under the limit.
Knuckles whiten,
jaws clench,
teeth grind.
A red light permits me to fumble for a cigarette,
but can only find gum wrappers and receipts as a non-smoker.
The neighboring minivan distracts my search:
A mother smacks her kid’s hand away from his face,
Get that out of there! Here’s a Menthol, quit cryin’.

Now that I think about it,
I’m a little pissed that I wasn’t consulted
when my mother decided to make me
stop sucking my thumb.
Parents deliberately trick kids into
thinking their thumbs have spoiled—
coating poor Thumbkins in absurdities,
as a means to suppress their fear
of a child turning into a buck-toothed Yokel.

I was always jealous of those who couldn’t tell their right
from their left, those ambidextrous suckers—
always with a backup plan.
For me, that left thumb just wouldn’t suck the same,
slightly crooked, it was all wrong for my mouth.

From what I remember, thumb sucking
was quite a relaxing process,
a sort of childlike meditation.
Think of how many high-stress situations
that could be smoothed over
just by poppin’ in a Thumbkins:

The line at the Post Office attempts to multitask—
shuffling boxes at their feet and sucking thumbs.

A substitute teacher hunkers behind the desk,
in dire need of a quick fix between classes.

Upon an encroaching deadline, a feature columnist discovers
her ability to suck a thumb and still type 60 wpm.

The telemarketers take their 10 minute “thumb break”
out back to gossip about new hires.