Breakfast Sandwiches Big Enough To Cover Your Crotch

srvc-sky-diving-lg.jpgI am a creature of habit, although the word “creature” implies a certain wildness or a snarling wantonness of the spirit which really doesn’t capture the essence of who I am. I’m really more of “blobby find an osmotic balance with my environment” sort of guy; like an amoeba.

OK then, I am an amoeba of habit which is why at 5:45 am every morning the alarm on my cell phone goes off across the room and I struggle to roll out of the deeply formed impression in the mattress that just happens to be the exact shape of my body at rest; a free falling skydiver achieving the terminal velocity of sleep, the ripcord malfunctions nightly and I plummet towards consciousness but not before I deeply embed myself into the mattress’s surface. The phone tweets its digital song from its perch on Kathleen’s dresser for only a few seconds before I reach it and strangle it until it is silent. As I leave the room the harness of my failed chute is usually twisted into the down comforter and I’m yanked back under the blankets and tethered to the crash site until the younger twin of the alarm I killed avenges the death of his brother 5 minutes later.

The hallway is lit only by the red glowing disembodied trophy head of Spiderman on Jack’s dresser as I stumble barefoot from the bedroom. Jack is typically sprawled on top of the covers and awash in the diffused crimson, it always looks like he passed out in Kenny Rogers chicken rotisserie. Adam snoozes behind a closed door but I can hear the espresso machine of his white noise maker and the jittery seagulls clamoring for the barista to leave room for cream. My toes curl over the edge of the top step and I limp like a crossing guard with a bad hip down the stairs to the first floor.

The cat’s been out all night and is yowling on the porch to get in like Corey Feldman outside a trendy Hollywood nightclub so I let him in and he waddles into the basement; much like Corey Feldman after he fails to get into a trendy Hollywood nightclub. After grabbing a Lightning McQueen fleece from the couch and wrapping it around my shoulders I pour myself a cup of coffee and slope back into the living room; a 36 year old man in a pair of saggy boxer briefs creped in a child’s blanket drinking coffee from a chipped “Real Dads Hug Their Kids!” mug. Hunched on the edge of the couch I turn on SportsCenter with the volume muted until the caffeine increases my heart rate to a level that puts me in the “not clinically dead” category.

By 6:20 I’m in the car with my second cup of paternally pious Maxwell House motoring to the gym to workout. On some level I believe I can slow down the aging process by training every morning; that somehow lugging 45 lb. metal plates around a hollowed-out renovated Rite-Aid Pharmacy will stave off my receding hairline, softening mid-section, my thickening eyebrows that go all the way to my feet. With my hat pulled down low on my eyes and my iPod shuffling through the same 256 songs that have been on it for the last 4 months because I’m too indifferent to add new music I trundle from station to station among the other wandering members of my surrogate tribe: Run on the Elliptical Machine like a Rabid Wolverine Chasing an Injured Chipmunk Guy, Wear a Tank Top So Baggy Everyone Can See My Nipples Guy, Walk Around Pretending To Work Out But I Really Just Want to Talk to People Girl, I Leave Puddles of Sweat on Everything I Touch Guy…they’re all there. Every morning they’re there and by 7:30 I’m back in the car and heading home to my actual less rabid, less nipply, less sweaty but equally as chatty tribe.

Everyone’s usually up when I walk in the door, Kathleen’s feeding Adam pieces of apple and Jack’s drinking his Pediasure and coffee concoction he’s had every morning since he was two. After hugging my kids because the coffee cup told me to, I retreat back upstairs where the daily ritual of the amoeba began to shower and get ready for work.

Earlier this week I replicated this ritual as I do every morning, went back upstairs to shower as I do every morning, stripped naked in the front walk-in closet/computer room as I do every morning and walked in to the hallway towards the bathroom; Unlike every morning though Jack was standing there with a scrambled egg and English muffin sandwich on a side plate waiting for me. “Mommy made this for you Daddy and I wanted to bring it up to you.”

I thanked him and took the plate from him then stood there awkwardly for a second in silence with him. Nudity has never been an issue or a reason for embarrassment for us with Jack. He still showers with us from time to time and he regularly walks in on me while I’m getting dressed, but at that moment for some reason I felt very self-conscious. I thought he was going to head back downstairs, but he started telling me about a dream that he had instead. As he recounted a dream in which Spiderman died and he brought him back to life by laying a construction paper heart on him I lowered the breakfast sandwich in front of my crotch and backed up against the door to the attic.

After a second I noticed that he was so enthralled with relating his dream to me that wasn’t really even looking at me. And then it occurred to me that he doesn’t give a shit what I look like, if I work-out or if I’m shaped like an amoeba, if I have a little less hair and little more waistline, if my eyebrows go all the way to my feet, I’m just his Dad. That’s it. So I lifted the plate from in front of my groin and took a bite of the sandwich as he kept talking about the dream.

NaBloPoMo has been like that for me. The first few posts this month I was preoccupied with how I appeared to everyone, new readers and new friends, and I concealed my imperfections, blemishes, and literary love handles with plates and scrambled egg sandwiches. But here we are on Day 30 and there’s nothing left to hide. No one seems to give a shit what I look like or who I pretend to be. You’ve seen me naked, so to speak, with all my imperfections, limitations and failings and I’m content to eat homemade Egg McMuffins while you gawk, point and laugh, or just put on a baggy tank top that shows your nipples and tell me about your dreams.

Whatever you choose to do I want you to know this has been a great month, but for now I’ll be turning off my cell phone and finding a blobby osmotic balance with my pillow and mattress.

Geronimo!

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These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

five.jpgJennic over at Sweetisu posted a popular meme she entitled Looking Back 5 Times yesterday and since we are in the final sprint of the NaBloPoMarathon what better time to take a quick glance over my shoulder, to look back on November and beyond, to reflect on how far I’ve come to get to this point.

The simple Rules of this meme are:

1. Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given below.
2. Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.
3. Don’t forget to read the archived post and leave comments.

The Key Words for this Meme are Family, Friends, Yourself, Love and Anything. I’ll include a snippet of from each post to give you an idea of what is was about before you decide whether or not to click through to it

Family: Unnatural Selection: How I Failed to Inherit the Vacation Gene
“I can say with complete genetic certainty that I did not inherit the dominant Vacation allele from either of my parents. We just returned from a week in Maine with my parents Nana “Who Drank the Last of My Favorite Wine?” Gathen and Pops “Don’t Worry I Brought My Tools” Gathen and my sister Ish “Put It Back On CNN” Gathen and from Day One my parental vacationing inadequacies were at best glaring and at worst utterly disgraceful to the legacy and line of great vacationing parents who have preceded me….”

Friends: What’s Halloween without Pirates, Patriotism, Poop, Plastic Hair, and Performance Enhancing Drugs.
“This was my first post for NaBloPoMo and this month has resulted in dozens of new friends that I would not have met otherwise. Talented writers, incredible parents, honest souls, and people who make me laugh until I Shart.”

Yourself: The First Rule of Fight Club? Have Your Children Put Lincoln Logs in Your Shoes.
“My job requires me to travel frequently enough for me to know that housekeeping doesn’t appreciate it when you 1) hang your suits from the sprinkler heads 2) drape wet towels over the curtain rods and 3) leave the tub filled with ice and unconscious victims of a complex black market kidney removal scheme, but not often enough for me to legitimately complain about it. Like anyone with kids though, the most difficult part of traveling for me is the separation anxiety that surfaces with each call home, with each child I see holding a father’s hand walking down the street, with each Lincoln Log jammed into the toe of my dress shoes.”

Your Love: It’s a Boy! A Lemon-Scented Boy with New Foaming Action.
“This yearly ritual is one that Kathleen and I have carried on with Jack and Adam and since Adam turned one year old on Sunday and the story of his birth is so unique and miraculous I thought that I would share it with all of you. If you are a regular reader of this blog you know that I am prone to hyperbole and exaggeration however the reality of Adam’s delivery is far stranger than any fiction I could write.”

Anything You Like: Club Füt and a Boy Named Crawl
“Having two children, it’s inevitable that comparisons will be drawn between them. For example, Jack was born with clubbed feet and was casted to the knee on both legs at only three days old. Though his left foot was corrected within a month, his right foot was so severely inverted that it required additional casting, two separate operations, physical therapy and a corrective splint worn at night after the casts were finally removed. When even those measures didn’t work, as a last resort we allowed the Orthopedic Surgeon to perform a radical and experimental cybernetic procedure in which Jack’s foot was replaced with a metal endoskeleton and then covered with living tissue. Though the operation was successful in correcting Jack’s foot, every couple of weeks it travels back in time to kill Sarah Conner.”

As seems to be the trend this late in the NaBloPoMo game I too will not plant the kiss of death on anyone in particular. See you at the finish line tomorrow.

Christmas Time Is Here And I’m Such A Blockhead

charlie-brown-tree-m.jpgIf all the 24 hour Holiday music stations, every dirty Santa suit clad Salvation Army Bell Ringer set up in front of every Target, shopping center entrance, post office, and strip mall, every annoyingly polite pimply-faced Boy Scout Troop camped outside my neighborhood mini-mart badgering me to buy one of their crappy $17 merit badge Christmas wreaths and every Dunkin Donut clerk who half-heartedly asks if I want to donate a $1 to support some charity then insists I write my name in Black Sharpy on a piece of yellow paper shaped like a star so that it can be hung with the rest of the stars and I do it when I all I really wanted was a Pumpkin Spice Latte and a Blueberry cake donut… if all these sources are to be believed… this is the most wonderful time of the year.

Not to go Charles Shulz on you, unless that’s the type of thing that turns you on – I believe it’s called a Peanuts Shower, but for as much as I love this time of year, and it really is my favorite time of the year, it’s the hyper-commercialism, manic-consumerism and the seasonal opportunists that make it impossible for me to appreciate the Holiday season outside the walls of our house and that have gradually hallowed out the spirit of Christmas from inside me.

What are my options though? Leap onto the nearest high school auditorium stage, murmur “Lights, please” and answer ol’ Chuck’s pragmatic “Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?” with a poignant Biblical verse or maybe just harness a dog dressed like a reindeer to a sleigh and scale Mt. Crumpet to let my heart grow three-sizes and remind the world that “Christmas doesn’t come from a store, Christmas perhaps means a little bit more”? Sounds ambitious, futile and highly unlikely considering I traditionally procrastinate and wait to do my Christmas shopping until the last possible second. And given that it’s a certainty that I’ll be sprinting madly through the aisles of a Big Box anchor store on Christmas Eve frantically searching for that last gift while aggravated employees wait impatiently near the entrance eager to lock the doors the chance that I’m going to teach the world the true meaning of Christmas is about as likely as me carving the Roast Beast at the Whos Christmas Feast.

Yet even though I feel more imprisoned than a male escort in Boy George’s London Flat by the marketing, the materialism and the demoralizing perversion of the holiday I found I may have the ultimate defense against a season that seems to really want to hurt me, that seems to really want to make me cry and it is Romana Sambuca my son Jack who still believes in Santa Claus, the magic of Christmas and that Zombies are hiding in our upstairs bathroom when he has to use it by himself during dinner. The first two being the reasons why, in contradiction with my long-held No Decorations Before December Edict, when Jack asked for me to lug the Christmas decorations down from the attic the day after Thanksgiving I merrily obliged. The latter being the reason I allow Jack to carry a rolling pin to the bathroom with him when he goes alone.

So on Friday evening Jack and I sat next to our box of Christmas Decorations gently unwrapping each wooden Santa Claus statue, each ceramic snowman candle holder, each shepherd and wise man bearing gifts like archaeologists discovering a Pharaoh’s treasure. After each piece was removed from it’s swaddling of last year’s newspaper and plastic shopping bags Jack would direct me to which shelf, door molding or widow ledge he wanted the piece to go on.

Above the entrance into the foyer from the living room now stands a delegation of Santa’s from various countries book-ended by painted plywood snowmen. Above the entrance to the dining room are two snowman families and two hinged signs one that says Christmas and one that says Wnter (we noticed last year it was missing the letter I. No wonder it was on sale) Each window now displays a wooden wreath or other hanging accoutrement and we didn’t even set up the Nativity Scene and the Department 56 Christmas Village Display yet.

Then last night while Jack was lying on the couch next to me A Charlie Brown Christmas came on TV and just as Charlie Brown left the play rehearsal with Linus to buy a Christmas tree, carrying with him the expectation that he should choose big, shiny aluminum one, Jack’s drowsy eyes submitted to the gravity of a five year old’s day and he fell asleep. While Charlie Brown and Linus wandered the artificial forest to the jazz of the Vince Guaraldi Trio tapping the multicolor metal hollow trees I looked up around the room at Jack’s council of Christmas elders judging from their perches; it felt like they were tapping my cold surface with their stares and listening to the muffled echo resonating deep within me. Then when Charlie Brown rejects the artificiality of the season by selecting a real tree that is little more than a sprig, I looked down at my little sprig sleeping next to me.

He is a real tree in an artificial forest and I am the biggest, shiniest, hollowest aluminum tree on the lot. He is a symbol of the true spirit of Christmas, and I am a symbol of what happens when you stop believing.

Sleep little sprig. Dream of Christmas fast approaching. Tonight I too will dream of being chosen despite my coldness then carried from the lot. That someone wraps their blanket around my base for support then gives me the love that I need to be made real again.

Just like you.

Two Turtle Doves: Our Christmas Card Picture

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Our Christmas card picture this year of Jack and Adam. Details to notice 1) The double bruise on Jack’s forehead from slamming his face on the basement stairs and an unsuccessful attempt at tackling Adam 2) The matching Rugby shirts. I’m not a huge advocate of dressing the boys in the same outfit but Kathleen asks so little of me I felt this was a concession I could make 3) Adam’s teeth. 13 months old and the kid’s already got a set of choppers 4) The early formation of a vampire fang in the upper corner of Adam’s mouth 5) Adam’s red pupils. Irrefutable evidence that Adam is the evil yet lovable spawn of Satan 6) Though you can’t see it I’m tickling them with one hand while I snap the picture with the other. I know I’m their father, but good god these are a couple of good looking kids.

(Quick post tonight. I’d apologize but I think it may be a relief to many. Not to worry. I’ll be back to my epic posts tomorrow.)

 

 

Water Stain Looks Either Like Buddha With Erection or Mr. Weatherbee From Archie Comics

buddhaweatherbee.jpgWhether believers see the erect penis of Siddhartha Gautama the Awakened One or the silhouette of Waldo Weatherbee the principal of fictional Riverdale High School the recently discovered water stain has become not only a source of inspiration and hope but a powerful reminder of the how objects bearing an image that might be a religious figure or a beloved comic book character can serve as a divisive element between groups who traditionally follow the convictions of peace, love and frolicking high school hijinx.

waldoweatherbee.jpgThousands of Buddhist Monks and Archie Comic enthusiasts are flocking to the upstate New York home of famed blogger and former Jiffy Lube attendant Bill Gathen to pray to, weep before or to just catch a glimpse of what has quickly become perhaps the most famous water stain in recorded history.

fatbuddha.jpgUpon discovering the watermark early Monday morning Mr. Gathen immediately contacted the Institute for Water Stains, Comic Books and Religious Iconography. “It was like that picture of the vase that also looks like two faces or maybe something more like a Rorschach Test.” said the devastatingly handsome writer. “When I first saw it on the panel of the porch I saw that principal from the Archie comics, but the longer I stared at it I began to see a fat Buddha statue with a boner.”

_40534689_toastie-afp203.jpg“It’s a fantastic specimen. One that can not even be surpassed by the Virgin Mary on the wall of the Chicago underpass, the Virgin Mary toasted cheese sandwich or even the Shower Jesus piece of plaster from a Pittsburgh men’s bathroom.” gushed Institute representative Dr. Mitch Cumstein. “For one stain to simultaneously look like a fully aroused Buddha and Principal Weatherbee, or The Bee as we are referring to him at the Institute, indicates a higher power is at work here. A power far beyond our comprehension.”

mary.jpgBy noon on Monday thousands of pilgrims had already arrived and by 3:00 two distinct and contentious camps had formed around the holy vision. While the Buddhists draped in their monastic robes knelt reverently before the image, the Archie fanatics, some dressed as Archie, Betty, Veronica, Reggie and other classic characters, played Frisbee while one Jughead complete with a crown-shaped beanie tried to eat a “Colossal Burger”; a burger made up of 16 different burgers.

jesusstain.jpg “It’s obviously Principal Weatherbee!” proclaimed 53 year old Richard Martin of Green Bay, Wisconsin dressed as Marmaduke “Moose” Mason “This is a sign. Waldo’s telling us that we’ve strayed from the path of Riverdale’s Utopian ideals. We’ve lost our way.”

One Tibetan Monk named Genyen, which means Approaching Virtue, broke his vow of silence taken over 40 years ago to say, “Are you freaking kidding me? Look at it! It’s clearly the Enlightened One with a hard-on. How can you not see that?”

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The debate may be short-lived though as the forecast in the Northeast is calling for storms. Nevertheless, Mr. Gathen has pledged to somehow preserve the image and auction it off on eBay. “One of the monks told me that the Virgin Mary toast sold for like $28,000 on eBay. You can see James Gandolfini with a pole vault for all I care, I’m not taking less than 50 grand for this baby.”

Lost: Sunday Morning

air-raid.jpgThis morning I finally did it. After being awakened just after the 7:00 hour by the determined and brusque “all hands on deck come wipe my ass” proclamation of DONE! matter of factly howled by our the heir to the empire from his porcelain throne, I finally did it. After being greeted by an early morning chill upon rolling out from under the warmth of our blankets, my boxer briefs drooping off my hips like a Hanes skort, I finally did it. After helping Kathleen clean what looked like shepherd’s pie from the diaper of our oddly unaffected toddler who tragically was born with a civil defense siren instead of vocal chords (sort of an Edward Scissorhands scenario but with an Emergency Public Alert System and a larynx) I finally did it.

After Adam alerted me to an approaching tornado and Jack’s third query of “Daddy what’s on TV?” his 11th plea of “I want to watch a movie.” and his 37th request of “Can we get our Christmas Tree today?” I slipped on my boots, pulled on my jacket, grabbed a stapler, a roll of duct tape and the stack of fliers by the door and forged out into the frosty late autumn morning to do what I should have done 5 years ago.

On every tree, stop sign and telephone pole in the neighborhood I posted dozens of missives that read with heartbreaking remembrance:

Lost: Sunday Morning

Please Help us find our Sunday Morning.

  • Our Sunday Morning answers to instrumental jazz, Donny Hathaway and acoustic covers, lazy cups of coffee and sections of the newspaper spread across the living room floor.
  • Our Sunday Morning usually doesn’t wake up until 9:30 or 10:00 am and sometimes even stays in bed for up to an hour after it wakes up for some cuddling and smooching, which may or may not lead to some extracurricular activities.
  • Our Sunday Morning enjoys SportsCenter, Sports Reporters, human interest stories and political commentary with the volume down.
  • Our Sunday Morning sometimes reads the entire newspaper or just the Comics depending on its mood.
  • Our Sunday morning eats fresh cut melon, Dunkin Donuts and cinnamon rolls.
  • Our Sunday Morning likes long slow jogs that last 2 hours.
  • Our Sunday Morning likes long slow other things that last 2 hours.
  • Depending on the time of year our Sunday morning will spend hours on the couch, at the dining room table or on the front porch listening to the world slowly wake up.

Please contact us immediately 24 Hours a day if you find our Sunday Morning. We miss it desperately.

After posting the final leaflet I trudged home. When I entered the house Adam was stomping around the downstairs doing his Savion Glover impersonation and warning his Fisher Price Shopping Cart of toys of an imminent Class 5 Hurricane. In the kitchen Jack had both his brand new and his old Spiderman Bump and Go Quad Runners zigzagging across the linoleum and pinballing from one cabinet to the next. I walked into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee at an inopportune moment and stepped directly into a Mallachi Crunch.

With coffee in hand I limped cautiously back through the demolition derby into the dining room where the Sunday paper was on the table draped over the heads of half a dozen ceramic snowmen and the roof of the empty manger of our nativity scene.

The sports section beckoned to me, but it remained unread. “Daddy, can we get our Christmas Tree today?” Jacked asked from the 38th time from behind me. “Not today Jack.” I mumbled reflexively returning serve. Jack volleyed with an “Awwww Man.” drop shot but I’d already wandered off the court to stare wistfully out the front window.

A gust of wind rattled the siding on the house and Adam brought in da’ noise and da’ funk to tell me it was just a cold front pushing down from Canada and it was nothing to worry about but then activated the air raid siren to warn me that shepherd’s pie storm clouds were forming on the horizon. I picked him up and walked back into the kitchen. “Jack, do you want me to make cinnamon rolls?” He nodded an OK as new Spiderman collided with old Spiderman sending the aged Spiderman careening behind a door and newer Spiderman spinning into my ankle.

Jacked laughed out and looked up at me “Which one is better Daddy…the new one or the old one?”

The new one Jack. The new one is far better than the old one.

One Very Lucky Dutch Bastard

ripvanwinkle72.jpgHave you ever heard the story of Rip Van Winkle? He was an idle and lazy man who, while wandering the mountains to escape from his wife, encounters the ghosts of Henry Hudson’s crew. After drinking some of their wine, and they always had some mighty fine wine, he falls asleep under a tree for twenty years. I mention this tale of prolonged slumber because as the universe enjoys a certain cosmic balance that yins every yang and embodies the Ouroboros through fooling the serpent into eating its own tail by putting it in a hot dog bun and topping it with sauerkraut and mustard I have become the insomniac recess partner on the other side of the see-saw from one very lucky Dutch bastard.

Adam, the guiltiest of the usual suspects contributing to the staccato of my circadian rhythm is currently eluding capture from the matriarch of the household with a mini-nativity scene Baby Jesus stuck in his mouth, literally consuming the wooden body of Christ, while Jack is still dipping his first Bisquick roll from dinner which ended 30 minutes ago into the broth of Kathleen’s Famous Flavorless Post-Thanksgiving Turkey Carcass Consommé. Meanwhile I am frantically trying to get today’s post up before I black out from exhaustion on the keyboard of my ThinkPad.

This is just a long-winded way of saying that I’m tired and as soon as I’m done here one son is having the Messiah forcibly removed from his mouth, the other is having golden brown dinner rolls forced into his and I’ll be preparing my tail with all the fixins.

Before I began blogging a few months back, my writing was geared more towards poetry. Since tomorrow is Sunday I’m including a piece I wrote called Sunday Morning. It’s no M.C. Shadöe but it does reveal my espresso-sipping beret wearing artsy bohemian side. Shit, I think Adam just swallowed one of the wise men. Goodnight all.

Sunday Morning

Everything seems light this morning.
As if, because it’s Sunday, Gravity decided to sleep in
pull the covers up to his weighty chin
and continue dreaming about being reassigned to the less
stressful surface of the Moon or even Mercury
where his work would be significantly less demanding.

It’s possible that, throughout History, Gravity has been known
to occasionally oversleep
endowing Earthly creatures with fleeting moments of weightlessness.
And perhaps our ancestors used this transient buoyancy to
leap across the Atlantic or construct the Pyramids or assemble Easter Island.

But floating towards the ceiling I decide I won’t be so ambitious.
Why should I be?
For decades I’ve been held to the surface by the familiar ropes of gravity
and now today I’m a helium balloon floating towards the abyss of space
away from the clutching hands of a distracted child.

On my way to the nearest window I swim passed the kitchen
and realize the pot of coffee I had put on has exploded
into a thousand beads of liquid onyx.
Like impatient commuters buzzing around Grand Central Station
they drive the dirty dishes from last night’s dinner to cower
under the blades of the ceiling fan away from this agitated mob of gemstones.

Once outside I momentarily get kite tangled in some branches
then narrowly avoid the power lines that form
a surging net over my street,
but then I am free.

Below me my neighbors on their way to church must think it divine intervention
as they step reverently from their homes and suddenly begin a lofty
ascension towards where they’ve come to believe
God resides.

The morning sky is filled with sections and pages of the Sunday Times
soaring like prehistoric birds plumed in the feathers of yesterday’s news.

The morning sky is filled with cats and dogs precipitously awaiting the cloudburst
that will drench the world in a deluge of colloquialism and idiom.

The morning sky is filled with people in different poses of flight.
some flapping their arms madly
some frozen in the cartoonish pantomime of Superheroes
some, mostly children, have their arms outstretched and are making propeller sounds by humming through vibrating lips.

Then I hear a stirring.
A frustrated rustling between the sheets and through an upstairs window
I see Gravity throwing back the covers and hastily tying
his flannel robe around his ample stomach.

His arrogant hand shoots through the roof and gathers
the dangling strings from the bottoms of our kicking feet
and all that concerns me on being dragged back to Earth
are the broken plates and puddles of coffee
patiently awaiting my return.