My Son The Poet

I rise from bed. I am uninterested in life. I shuffle down to the other end of the house and find my sneakers. I am a sneaker guy. Sometimes that is not such a great deal. I sit down on the hassock to put on said sneakers. I am undoing the knots, looking at the stuff scattered on the kitchen floor from the previous day. Our family usually arrives home a la the Simpsons opening credits, although we insist upon homework being done before the tv and computer come to life. A crayon colored packet lies on the hardwood floor, a lonely reminder of the hours and days the kids spend working at school. This packet is entitled "words with W's", and it is apparently a booklet of poems the children in the first grade have written to describe who, what, where, when and why. My youngest is in this group of first graders, a solid member of the team, outstanding and individual. I leaf through the pages, searching for his poem, the rest of them are a sea of trite cliche that I pay little attention to. My dog this and my dog that, nothing original. I find my boys poem and I am not disappointed:

Buddha
doing disco
at night
in Nepal
because he does it secretly.


This is genius, and it also demonstrates my spiritual leanings so well. When was the last time you saw Jesus doing disco.