Since Memory

Last night, after supper, my son asked if he could sit with me. He is seven-years old and at the age where he is just starting to be aware of what is cool and what is not cool. Even so, he still hasn't figured out that sitting on his dad's lap, and letting his dad kiss the top of his head while marveling over the very reality of his being, is not cool, not cool at all. There will come a time when my son will no longer ask to sit on my lap. That day is not so very far off. Oh good heavens, children. They just rip you in two. The day my son was born I wrote this poem:

"Since Memory" (for Sebastian)

The sixties are a gleam on a wet yellow slicker,
the smell of lunch meat sandwiches left too long in wax paper,
the seventies a plastic ship model, later album sleeves
and fervid middle school dreams of hosiery whispering
on Mrs. Burzlaff’s legs;
the eighties are paint thinner, pimples, drywall dust;
the nineties: vodka and anger mostly,
and they say there are no second acts in American Life,
but “they” never found forty like this:
agrin at shit and breast milk,
made fragile, fresh and foolish


Professor Quest said…
Thanks dad! By the way, I still sit on your lap.

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