Some comedian has a one-liner about kids
being sent here to replace us. Nothing
is funny anymore. Some comedian.
Sometimes looking at my son
is like looking in a time-traveling mirror:
me at whatever age you have to be
to think a face lasts forever.
My son is handsomer than I am,
though I’m biased in his favor,
also he’s probably a nicer person,
so an upgrade for the world in the long run,
unless I bollocks it up for him. He carries
the dank sock smell of a 12-year-old
in a hurry and I don’t get to decide
when or whether he’ll outgrow it. Time
is one of those soul-sucking office jobs
where they make you train your replacement
before they freeze your passwords
and send a security guard
to watch you pack the family photos
on your desk, escort you
from the building. There’s not much to it:
help with homework until the homework
surpasses my abilities. Play catch
until twilight, wrestle in the living
room until he beats me. The work
would be pretty straightforward
if I weren’t so emotionally attached.
I’d like to think I’d get more credit for caring
but I told you he was in a hurry. I still need
to teach him to drive, to do his own laundry,
to strike a match, so many fires still
to start, they’re asking me to come
in early this morning to talk
about the future, I’m afraid there’s no good
way to say this, they’ve decided to go
in a new direction.