For the dog and I and my little guy the carpet is our kingdom
and we fight over patches of sunlight to magic in,
sometimes to sleep, sometimes to grow giddy with warmth.
Toys are always grimey and one day you just accept it.
My son smells like spaghetti-os or milk or bath
and we sing to the dog and no one could ever tell us that the dog doesn’t love it,
doesn’t hear Aretha croon or Sesame Street jive
in a way that hypnotizes him to our moment and our happiness;
true commune between beasts, real joy amongst animals
communication and meaning that emerges from our mammal hearts and our family brains and gives little use to the perfect symbol world and the able infrastructure it has built.
The stairs my son can’t climb.
The books my son can’t read.
The hot but modest girl he can’t take to prom unless she loses some extraordinary bet. On a reality show. In a parallel universe.
No is an invention, not found in nature. The only reason my son ‘can’t’ is because he does differently.
And that’s not a can’t.
He can roll and crawl about our carpet kingdom where his best friend is a giant dog
that loves Aretha and lives for Sesame Street.
We keep the questions and can’ts at the door – the only thing that gets through there is the occasional pizza.
We won’t be disturbed, the dog and I and my little guy,
because we’re busy in his living room laboratory – inventing new ways to be.
and we fight over patches of sunlight to magic in,
sometimes to sleep, sometimes to grow giddy with warmth.
Toys are always grimey and one day you just accept it.
My son smells like spaghetti-os or milk or bath
and we sing to the dog and no one could ever tell us that the dog doesn’t love it,
doesn’t hear Aretha croon or Sesame Street jive
in a way that hypnotizes him to our moment and our happiness;
true commune between beasts, real joy amongst animals
communication and meaning that emerges from our mammal hearts and our family brains and gives little use to the perfect symbol world and the able infrastructure it has built.
The stairs my son can’t climb.
The books my son can’t read.
The hot but modest girl he can’t take to prom unless she loses some extraordinary bet. On a reality show. In a parallel universe.
No is an invention, not found in nature. The only reason my son ‘can’t’ is because he does differently.
And that’s not a can’t.
He can roll and crawl about our carpet kingdom where his best friend is a giant dog
that loves Aretha and lives for Sesame Street.
We keep the questions and can’ts at the door – the only thing that gets through there is the occasional pizza.
We won’t be disturbed, the dog and I and my little guy,
because we’re busy in his living room laboratory – inventing new ways to be.
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