In terms of sounding intelligent or creative, every kid gets lucky once in a while, even your own. We were at Lala's sister Emily's house when London had just started speaking, and a group of us gathered in the kitchen, desperately waiting for the wine to be uncorked. Someone asked London to count forks or spoons, and, by chance, the boy started at 1 and ended at 10 without skipping a sliver of silver.
"Got yourself a genius on your hands," a fellow freeloader commented.
"I hope not," I said, having taught a few Myrons in my time. I know that geniuses may have invented keyless entry or cured syphilis, yet most prodigies I've encountered don't have the sense to wash their own hair or buy a decent pair of pants. I like my kids nice and average, just like a rerun of
Friends
.
Fast-forward three years. Maybe it was the wild weekend in Las Cruces, surrounded by graduate students who spoke of Flannery O'Connor and Jim Beam with equal reverence. Or maybe it was Poppy's bright idea to stop in Truth or Consequences, NM, on our way home to Santa Fe to soak in hot mineral baths on the roof of the Charles Hotel like some long lost hippies searching the heavens for the ghost of Ralph Edwards. Perhaps it was just dumb luck once again, but once we were safely strapped back in the minivan, our hair still dampened from the springs, London made an announcement.
"I have a poem," he said as earnestly as Alec Baldwin at a custody hearing. In the van in front of a dormant DVD screen, London corrected his posture and recited:
Look beyond the sea at night.
Look beyond the trees that wave.
Look beyond the monsters that bite.
Look beyond the monster's cave.
"London, where did that come from?" I asked, sharing the same sideways look as Lala and Poppy the one we always employ when London channels some ancient poet, gay cowboy or caffeinated Christian sports visionary.
"Just made it up." He shrugged. "Can we turn on the Pokemon movie now?"
That's the thing with London. You have to hit him when he's in the right mood. His sister Poppy understands that she has to go through the requisite parental interrogation each day. She knows that the more information she gives, the sweeter the plea bargain come dessert time. London doesn't think so logically. When I ask him how his day went, he'll claim he has no idea what I'm talking about even though we are still idling in the preschool parking lot. So once his inner poet emerged in a town that sold its soul for some game show PR, we had to spot our openings in order to hear more of the boy bard's verse. Lala had more luck than I did, not only getting a few repeat performances, but she was also witness to variations on the original that delved deeply into subjects as diverse as Power Rangers, Batman, Poppy, and a man who shoots lace from his stigmata wounds-Spiderman:
Look beyond Spiderman.
Look beyond his web shoots.
Look beyond his climbing walls.
Look beyond, he'll do it all!
When I got home from work a few days after his elegiac epiphany, London was weary from reciting all afternoon and waved me off like tabloid paparazzi when I requested a few spare lines. "I'm too tired, Dad. Leave me alone," he said, getting up off the couch. "I have to go potty." Even though my rondelet request had been denied, I dutifully walked him down the hall.
"Could I have just one poem, Londy?" I asked, probably the only person in America pleading desperately for poetry. "Maybe just one line?"
"Fine," he said, dropping his trousers. "Look beyond the toilet seat." He rolled his eyes and tapped his little foot. "There. Now close the door. I want some privacy."
Robert Wilder's recently published first book is
Daddy Needs A Drink
, www.daddyneedsadrink.com.
