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.