COOLER THAN LATER
My teenage sons declare I sometimes act 
so stupid I look cool. It’s often going 
all out on some minor theme: raking 
leaves like snakes or rhapsodizing 
films I’ve seen. My skip-dance passions 
shatter their glass pails of prudence, 
whump spades on their nonchalant souffles. 

When I respond to nods 
from several caffeine gods 
I waltz through minefields 
of their God-is-he-weird fears. 

It could be a riff on words I wouldn’t... 
they’d say couldn‘t... stop: 
Whence or whither go your withers? 
Or fastballs hurled before they raise a glove: 
What is so good as a poop in the wood? 
followed by my anguished sigh... 
‘Zounds... I think I dumped so much 
I’m in post-partum depression! 

When I become too much to dwell 
inside their finite circus of diversity 
they smile, wheel with gentle grandeur, 
slide their rigid torsos out the door.