Lex Thomas
 

  Dressing Cory to the Tune of Slipsliding Away

 My three-year-old son
 is dressed now—
 but don’t think
 it was easy

 this daily marathon
 race against time and gravity
 to capture high-octane arms
 in fleecy sleeves

 muscular little legs
 in baby Calvins and
 feet that run everywhere
 but into their toddler shoes.

 By 8 a.m., I am weary,
 sweat drips from
 freshly-showered armpits
 drenching my robe, unfastened.

 I shuffle to our bedroom
 where you play Paul Simon
 louder than he could
 ever muster live

 and I wonder why—
 but decide charitably
 that I am simply
 growing old with you.

Eric Thomas
 

                      Time-Out
 

     Sometimes I think he merely tolerates us.
     Four years old and confident that
     his judgment will guide him
     for as far as he can see.

     The streets
     are not so treacherous;
     helmets are uncomfortable;
     sleep  an inconvenience
     and the toilet a very last resort.

     Today it was the dumpster—
     and yes he’s been warned before
     and no we don’t care
     that Johnny was there first.

     We do this parent thing
     and wonder what is “right”.
     When is he “old enough to know better?”
     How many minutes for the time-out?
     What really constitutes “talking back?”
     How many of the tears are for dramatic effect?

     We wonder how to reinforce more than punish
     and we get so tired at times
     and wonder about how much better we’d handle things
     after a vacation of full night’s sleeps.

     We wonder what he’ll think
     when he’s 20, or 40, or 80, and
     which of our choices he will call mistakes.

 
 Cory comes home today

 ten endless days
 and nights I’ve waited
 for you to come home

 your bed eerie
 empty pillow indented where
 you lay your fragrant head

 sad teddy bear
 wide-eyed   wide-armed   wide-mouthed
 staring   reaching   silent

 toy cars   action figures   blocks
 lively   colours    untouched
 lie    scattered    still

 kitten stalking time
 pawing bugs and tin foil balls
 teething fingers   nipping heels

 new toys and videos
 a bubble gum dispenser
 make for a profitable absence

 tell me you’ve missed me

Eric Thomas
 

                    Spy
 

     He wants to be a spy.
     Already finds romance
     in his Junior Spy Kit—
     secret messages in code,
     foreign passports,
     plastic binoculars.

     Fresh out of the shower
     he peeks
     through window-shade slats
     at the neighborhood.

     We wonder if this
     is a good thing.

     As good as cartoons
     of kids screaming at each other.
     Or possession of more toys
     than our childhood fantasies.
     Or the music
     of the Spice Girls.

     But back to the spying.

     I ask him
       What’s going on out there?
     imagining the dark quiet.
     He says
       There’s someone going
       to the bathroom.

     An early grasp of
     sensitive information.

     I want to say
       Keep that eye, kid.
       Point it at life
       and all that lies ahead.

 

 
 

A chapbook version of Kid Stuff,
containing more poems and artwork,
is available from the authors.

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