Tribute to My Son's Summers

Here's an ode to the accent my son will hear on his summer vacations, and to the 15th anniversary of the classic movie "Fargo."

Great Lakes

 

Barn yard on my father’s farm:

The car alarm! I’m seein’ stars.

Bob’s at the bar with Carl and Marge.

It’s not far, but parking’s hard.

And, Oh, God, what’s that large mark

on your forearm. Fooling with the dog,

now that wasn’t too smart.

Your head was always hard.

 Too many movin’ parts. We’re dodgin’ rocks,

but you got a big heart, big as Scot’s.

His snow-thrower’s big as an ox.

Now relax, and let me charge the box.

A Pre-Parent Vision

Friends, here is something I wrote just before the advent of our son Bradley. Is this a metaphorically prescient grasp of parenthood?

Their Little Ears are Sensitive

Consider this when you plan your trip.

Stuff your little ones with cotton balls,

to keep their ears from popping.

Their little bums are sensitive.

Lay in loads of aloe for the bumpy trip

over the Ambibian mountains,

because their little feet are expensive.

If they shatter, the sound is startling.

Their little hands are starting to reach

for the controls. Slap them down

and scream louder than they can.

Their little grips are like vices

you have when they aren’t looking,

and your little face is a pliable board.

They hold you in some kind of place.

Their little minds are like sponges.

Remember to wring them out.

Their little heads wobble,

so secure them, with tape if need be,

or teach them to focus

their little eyes on a single finger

you flash like a knife

you should never leave out,

because their little wills

are stronger than yours.