My six-year-old son would like to kill his mother and brother.
I get it.
Somewhere in my fractured psyche there is a killer.
My Calvin was sprung out from him when I was young.
But my Calvin and my Killer no longer pull as many strings,
I am left now with something like a Whitman who tells me,
“The boy is not a worm, he is a noiseless patient spider –
his chief end; that the powerful play goes on and he may contribute a verse.”
In this moment, I am neither Killer, Calvin, nor Whitman.
I am just a father without a response.
So I hand back over the reigns.
My killer revels
in the fantasy,
my Calvin resolves
to keep better track of our kitchen knives,
and my Whitman chalks it up
to poor communication skills.
Thanks to my Lebowski, we all move on with our day –