November 2018

The Son and Heir

The waffles beckon from the kitchen counter
and I hear your voice – I like you to have a waffle
on the day that I made the waffles. And so I
will have a waffle on today, the day you made
the waffles – gluten free, dairy free, sugar free,
why, there’s nothing in these waffles whatsoever.
It’s like you conjured them up out of the air.
It’s like only heat is going into my mouth, and
are those chocolate chips? Meanwhile I’m
contemplating reciting Morrissey
lyrics as spoken word pieces.

I am the son and heir, of a shyness that is
criminally vulgar.

If you must know I did that thing where there
is too much water and ground coffee inside
the Aeropress, which typically leads to disaster
and brown sponges and no coffee at all until
the whole process begins again. But, I salvaged
it this time, my darling, and now there is a
fresh cup in my mug and it is chasing after
the waffle which has already disappeared
into my mouth.

I am the son and heir of nothing
in particular.

I’ve already learned a new song this morning
while you have escorted the eight year old,
our eight year old, our son and heir, to the building
where other songs are song, but not necessarily
in the manner in which we prefer them to be
sung. Soon music will come out of our mouths
where waffles used to be. And by soon I mean
in about a week. I’m sure it will be a Friday.
That’s the day we do these things.

How can you say I go about things the
wrong way?

I’ll tell you how soon now is. Look, we’re
already here, and it’s gone, or guess what?
It’s back again. Later it will by my turn with
our heir apparent in the backseat of the car
ushered to a celebration of life where tokens
will be necessary and no sensible human would
put what they call pizza in their mouths. I
keep mentioning my mouth. This is how I
say the things I say. Surely you’re used to
this by now.

I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does.