Classic Poem

My six- and nine-year-old sons
are performing their homespun
homeboy rap star angst,
one-handed cartwheels, hips
accentuating the fugue
of hip hop melody, fingers
and eyes snapping, indeed,
something's astir, appetite
or rage against the great republic
of fatherhood, genetic status quo
pummeled by another level
of fierce unconscious undertow.
Disgruntled darlings banging
pelvises, hyphenating street rant
to immigrant dead ends
where no one deserves mercy
or yields. OK, I get
the evil eye no one else does,
unprovoked declaration
of holy war: You're OK, pops,
but stay out of our way!
Inheritor of my father's
ebullient nightmares, I also
wanted the father not
the son sacrificed, feared
our house wasn't big enough
for two of us, understood
in this ancient tug-of-war
the son must kill in himself
what he most loves. But
these kids will need help
emptying the future of me.
When it's time I'll step aside,
twice, once for them,
once for me. Now the thing
to do is bless the loneliness
of their dance around
our shrinking living room,
and wish them, yes,
the very best of luck.











Used by permission of the author.