This afternoon I was feeling contemplative and so I wrote one of my horrible poems– full text below.
On a cloudy day
Late in May
I sat and watched my son
Struggle to roll
And giggle in play.
Boxing was on in the background
And I thought of dreams and hopes
And then he rolled over to the TV stand
The achievement of all his dreams and hopes for the moment
And I had to go pull him away
Destroying everything he’d worked so hard to achieve.
This, my son, is life.
That was when I smelled it. My son had experienced a blowout of epic proportions and there was now poop smeared down the side of his leg and over a good part of the living room.
Already a critic.