Aubade With Sun and Son

[Cara.]

Were I to tell him his profile is beautiful

in the first light running the beach with us,

both of us stuporous, my son at fifteen might feint

a blow at my "stuck out" ears he inherited

or, worse, shoot me a glance so full of lead

I couldn't fixate on how rapturous it is

to race the sun just coming up and bask, luminous, in its reflection.

Therefore, I won't chance it. Who wants language

at 6:46 A.M.? Maybe you, reader,

hungry for something more or else why are you here,

so many claims on your attention superior to mine,

in better color, clearer print, superior soundtrack, longer memory,

more megabytes than mine. This is just a poem, ruthlessly

heterodox in its appeal, rather conventional in technique

though I like the underlying couplets,

that zeugma, a couple of double-entendres

and the consonances and cadences, how about you?

What are you going to do today?

It is 7:24. We all are ravenous,

my son, me and you. I gave you a run,

now here's your chalk white cup, café au lait,

wheat toast, two croissants, a banana I'm slicing with my pocketknife.

I believe in dealing with the stuff we've got

for poetry, not what we haven't, except for the empyrean,

oblivion, the ineluctable, my choice

of memories about small circles in hell I've pulled myself out of—

and I have a full beverage selection of tap water

you and I can whisper into wine. I'm glad you're staying

to share my petit dejeuner, I'm grateful, really,

for your time. My son, you see, is off at the computer,

refining my metaphors and running a program

from a world I'll never enter, will you?

Whipped butter? or just light margarine for your toast?

Orange marmalade or plum? One lump or two?

 

Peter Cooley