Is it cold enough for hot chocolate?
Yes, we’re baking cookies. Come and help.
The kid that insists on blueberry
candy canes would rather drive through virtual streets
of San Francisco or James Bond-jet pack
over snow drifts than join us in the kitchen.
He doesn’t notice twilight unless the sun sets
on his screen. He has mini pizzas, heat,
love, all the bare necessities. He is beyond baking,
toy aprons or pretending to wash the dishes,
toddler hands lost in pink, flock-lined rubber gloves.
He is not perturbed. Helmeted in his racing seat
before the steering wheel, our boy laughs out loud
at vintage Looney Tunes, unaware their whiteface
is racist, Porky Pig’s stuttering politically incorrect.
Where will he find ferocity knowing nothing
but canned aggression, Disney warfare? Molokai,
lost in time island, where he refused snorkeling,
to wet his head. He will jump on a trampoline,
will not punch a bag, kick the can, form a fist.
He will sink a 32-foot putt but can he take a hit? Learn
that being hit is not catastrophic? No
worries. He’s happy biding island time, happy
its moat foils the bears, bores, kindergarten foes.
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