With bright eyes and a sheep's smile
father invites them in
concealing his glee
he leads them to the battle ground.
Mum wears a frown
how she dreads these contests.
Father fancies himself an authority
familier with the world's religions
and all their flaws.
He relishes this opportunity
to wax theological,
flex intellect; test his metal.
Ever ready to pick apart the good book - rock certain
Jesus Is his prophet
not theirs.
*ding*
The living room patter is cordial;
light jabs,
all the while he sniffs for an opening
the cursory dance is soon followed
by deeper intent -
he fires a loaded question
exposing a weak link in their battalion.
The joust, as always, takes a turn.
Dad's subdued voice
now booms free of constraint.
"You are a congenital idiot!"
Truth springs from arguments amongst friends.
but coversation between calcified minds yields no crop.
My wife wears a frown.
I tell her
this is why we pick things apart..
It's in our blood.
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