Today’s poem is in response to a hugely fun prompt by Rachel McKibbens. Her detailed exercise yields the sort of non-sequiturs that stretch even the associative logic of poetry:
CONVERSATION WITH MY FOUR-YEAR-OLD
Why do you think your feet aren’t listening to you?
Playing shuffleboard on the deck of the Great Beyond.
Why was that forest not enough for me?
Spider, mistress, aesthetic missteps.
How come the President didn’t uncause that fire?
A brain the size of Texas, like Anne Carson’s.
What language of restaurant will this be?
The Beegees, Peter and the Wolf, The Chipmunks’ Disney Classics.
Mommy, do I have a backpack? Why does this Lowes have five signs? What’s “pressure”?
The smile of Julia Roberts.
Why is Grandpa unhappy at me?
Trail of breadcrumbs, what big teeth, magic beans.
Silly Mommy, if you’re sad Zonker’s going to die,
why don’t you just get another kitty that’s orange and white?
Bendy straws, rainbow pipe cleaners, torn trampoline leaning against the wall.
* * * * * * * *
Yes, he’s a weird (and extremely observant) kid. This poem makes his mom sound even weirder! Thanks, dear Readers, for reading.