Little Pricks

Remember that
little prick in
the bathtub, all those
years ago? Your
cousin's? Donald's? It
was all wet and
shiny, and he
popped it up, out
of the soapy water, like
it was a lighthouse
and he rammed
his bath boat into
the rocks, sinking it. He
was not ashamed
of his, as you were
of yours, it was
just fun for him. You
were amazed and a bit,
yes, shocked, and you hid
yours under the suds,
shyly, despite his
invitation to join in
the fun. So how come
my mind recalls
this with such intense
clarity from no more
than six years old, today
as I wake, the big
fan motionless above
my head, against
the white boards of
the bedroom ceiling?