This post is about how poetry can come from anywhere.
I haven't been writing poetry in some time. I have journalled, and written prose, but the necessary stillness to sit down and craft a poem has eluded me of late.
But something in the atmosphere at Dodge had me filling the little page of a red notebook and Friday afternoon, I received a few texts from my 16 year old son that inspired this poem.
Thanks to technology, I now know
the dog has pooped in the middle
of my son's room. I know it in real
time, the phone buzzing with insistence,
its Alice-in-Wonderland "read me".
And make no mistake--when it vibrates
its rectangular black body against my pocket,
I snatch it up, looking for wisdom
in its fortune cookie fortune
length text. "Guess who pooped
in my room?" it reads. Does he mean
for me to jump right on the train, four
hours home to clean it up? Or is it a less
than subtle rebuke. Both on the dog's part
and my son's. Or does he only mean to share
his exasperation, a wry commentary
from a nearly adult to a practicing one? The dog
pooped in his room. I refuse to remind him
to scoop it up, flush it down, lecture
about the need for more frequent walks.
He doesn't need that and the dog,
he too, knows better.
--draft, ljcohen, October 2012