It never surprises me the number of things that occur in and around New York City. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but every time I turn the corner, there’s something new.
Directly across from the drums and fifes on Federal Hall sat an old man playing an ErHu, a poor immigrant playing in front of the symbol of America’s wealth.
In the midst of visiting neighbors with toddlers and inviting friends over to visit, I came to the sudden realization that with a house with a toddler can be a train-wreck disaster or it can aspire to reach various levels of “less embarrassing.” There is no “clean.”
I might not be a mature adult. Every day I come home with a Happy Meal toy for you, Cookie, is a day where I proudly walked into the lobby of a Manhattan office building, rode the elevator upstairs, and strolled through the corridors of a high powered office, unabashedly carrying a Happy Meal. Does that make me immature? Nope.
Does tempting all of the people glumly carrying salads (especially those trapped in the elevator) with the wonderful aroma of the extra large order of fries make me immature? A little bit.
Does leaving my office door open during lunch with the happy meal box prominently placed on my desk and with the wonderful aroma of the extra large order of fries wafting down the hall to contaminate my side of the floor make me immature? Heh.
In my defense, I do share the fries with anyone who asks.
So I received this challenge from Blunderdad (how do grown men get roped into these things? Oh right. Dads.) to write a ten line poem with the “love” in each line and only four words per line, the “Love in ten sentences” Challenge. The last time I wrote a poem was … seven grade English class? Having to stand up and read the abominable thing was a nightmare. Publishing this one on the internets? Well, at least my fly isn’t down this time.
Love has no shame:
Love’s a dad who,
Loves you shifting blame,
On that lovely fart,
Ungloved with stinky aim.
Love can be chaotic:
When there’s trash allover,
Sloven cleaning is quixotic,
Yet love doesn’t blame,
Beloveds hoarding the exotic.
Signs of terrible poetry? Stretching the rules of challenges and literary decency. At least I’m not trying to rhyme “collagen” with “apologin” (or name you a direction, Cookie).
I think there’s part of this process where I’m supposed to nominate others to share my pain in trying to compose bad poetry, in the spirit of those fun 90’s emails that promised me that Bill Gates would personally give me a jet and ten million dollars if I forwarded the thing to ten people. I’m not going to nominate anyone. You’re welcome. And you’d better be appreciative, too –I’m giving up a private jet and ten million dollars so that you don’t have to relive terrible moments of middle school English class.