Water sports

The poem wanted to write itself tonight, right after I spent the entire day with my five year-old son on his first field trip. The poem was, ironically, about fatherhood and failure. (A nod to Chabon, I assume.) The process of writing it was compounded by another failure: smoking a cigarette, a habit I never gave up but simply forgot doing except when I'm faced with an ice-cold beer or whiskey. (On the rocks.) I planned to rewrite the poem here and do the tweaking before publishing. The fun part: the manuscript ended up by the shower, on one of those makeshift tables beside our toilet, and because we didn't have space for a shower curtain (having one felt pretentious in such a tiny, tiny space) the paper it was written on was limp and soggy. (Another irony: the poem was written at the back of my son's Pointers To Review, with a clause below for parents that says something like 'I have read and understood everything written on it', which I signed since - and this is a fact I've always been proud of - I've always been in charge of prepping him for exams: review sessions, supporting videos, further explanations, the works.) The poem was virtually unreadable - as is true with any haphazardly written piece.