The song of Issac

Isaac, like the swallows,

singing the coming

Of summer in his own way:

Was finishing a popsicle

when the lesson began.

Melted juice dripping, leaving

A straight purple line from

His chubby fingers,

Down the wrist,

finally running down

to his elbow,

leaving a sticky trail.

Isaac licked it all,

Reaching with his tongue

all the way to the

point of his elbow,

Amazing me with

his Flexibility.

I was less impressed, though,

that during the lesson,

Issac pursued

a heinous course of action;

Sniffing every inch of the trail

He had marked

with the tongue.

Of course the elbow

was a struggle to reach.

A peak he could not ascend.

Is he going to go on

like this all summer?

Popsicle after popsicle?

Is he going to spend his life

Sniffing and smelling

Then poking his nose?

Maybe I’m too judgmental,

The kid is only twelve.

“Isaaaac! Cut it out” I cry,

You sessile pervert!

You are in existential danger

In the long run, at least.

He stares at me , then blinks.

My outrage unknown,

Never to be made clear:

We are a machine the reacts

To different things.

We bring out the survival tools

That we’ve got, or acquired.

To deal with our problems,

To live with ourselves.

Until we don’t.

and then the tools

Are not enough anymore.

Stupid monkeys that we are,

We someday run out of tricks.

Sniffing... Our elbow...