the father-child event this Saturday;
as if
we might re-enter the nineteenth century,
as if
this could teach Lucien a connection with the land,
that not all food comes plastic-wrapped from the supermarket,
as if
raspberry wasn’t a sound he made as a baby
funny in babies; rude in everyone else,
as if
blackberry won’t mean a personal digital assistant
Lucien will hold to his ear,
as if
he won’t live half his life on the internet,
if this crazy electronic world never comes crashing down,
as if
a kiss, a cup of milk, chalk drawings on the driveway,
raspberries and vanilla ice cream were all he needed,
as if
I could root his life in the soil around our house,
as if
a life can be lived
no matter what calamities
are hysterically reported on the TV
every night.
Rusty Truck 