—STOP ME IF YOU’VE HEARD THIS ONE 

 

Not Quite Finished

 

Sometimes I sit here, watching baseball or golf like any old man, and my son will come home from work, what they call teaching pre-school to young terrorists, and he’ll be exhausted, same as I was once, and he’ll kiss the crown of my head without asking permission, as if I’m a prince or king, a gorgeous gesture I never taught him, and he’ll ask how my day was, what I did, what new music I heard, and maybe he’ll genuinely care to hear my replies if he isn’t too beaten down by toddlers tumbling all over him or kids shitting their pants before noon, too early in the day for that, and I’ll say, It was good, son, Yeah it was, saying so with a little extra something if I wrote I poem I felt good enough about, and he’ll say, That’s good, Dad, and I’ll watch the pitch or swing on the screen before he comes back down later to the table where we’ll talk about what really happened today, the bombings and genocide in foreign lands and right here, the destruction of decency and the demolition of truth, and afterward, while I’m cleaning up the mess of plates and stuffing uneaten food down the scary gray mouth of the disposal, we’ll say, I love you, because it’s always the right thing to do, the knot on the bow so to speak, and then invariably, I’ll find another plate set aside, smeared with some disgusting sauce, or a dish with a meal on it that looks started but not quite finished, and I’ll swamp that one with fresh hot water from the sink spout and push whatever’s still clinging down the drain as well.