This poem is about my son's love for cars, something that I did nothing to encourage. I don't understand what part of my or my wife's genetic make-up accounts for this love. That's the issue of today's psalm. It took me about an hour to write. Add another half hour of revision. Viola.
Saint Marty, once more is an a hurry. He promises to write more meaty posts after he's done with his Lenten project. Really, he does.
Psalm 37: My Son’s Cars
When I read to my son, he runs
From me, as if I’m a hungry lion,
He, a well-fed Christian condemned
By Nero. I have never played with green
Soldiers, refuse to buy toy guns or darts,
Still have my daughter’s old dolls
In the toy chest. My son obsesses over
Cars, matchbox tractors, helicopters tiny
Cars, matchbox tractors, helicopters tiny
As frogs. I don’t know where he learned
This hunger, if it somehow mutated
From some Neanderthal gene, hairy,
Full of mammoth hunts, stone wheels.
He sits on the floor, growls, makes sounds
Of rusty mufflers, truck engines stuck
In pools of swamp mud. I listen,
Watch him shove cars across hardwood,
Think of my father, a plumber, hunter,
Car guy, in the front row for Our Town
When I was in high school. He watched me
The way he watches the Super Bowl
Every year, as if his life depends on
His team bringing home the Vince Lombardi
Trophy. I took my bow, looked at my father,
Standing, clapping, maybe understanding
Thornton Wilder’s words about how
We all go through life, ignorant of
Toast mothers make for breakfast,
Grass fathers mow on summer nights,
Our daily acts of devotion, sacrifices
We make without even thinking.
I will sit in stadium bleachers
If my son joins the football team.
I will buy popcorn, cheer, stomp.
I will do this for him, not quite
Comprehending the rules of his game,
The mechanics of toy cars pushed
Straight through the walls of my heart.
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| My son and his truck |
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