A poem.

raising a kid these days is tough, making
sure they grow up and learn to pack
their own lunch, not to
mention read
the hours for Father’s Day brunch,
or their brother’s twelfth birthday dinner

before getting their Focus stuck in a trough.
“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m right around the block”
as their parents & them leave the restaurant –
now they don’t read
or eat,
but they are half-a-foot taller than
he’s sitting in the bathroom at work

and if he takes too long then the stall starts
to feel like an isolation pod, and he
starts to expatiate on all the
ways he thinks his life
went wrong.

this dwelling
is interrupted by a
sudden svelting, spitting
up still gunk from the
surface of his

gut, and

it sits
in
his
mouth like
poppycock
as he opens
his legs to
the void
for
a
soft
place
to spit
it
out –

he dribbles on his own thigh as the
auto-flush engages.
“down the line it’s in their genes.”

//wd 6.20.2026