my son and i built
a car from a pine block
to enter it
into the derby
he joined the Scouts
like i had at that age
and together we crafted a car
that looked like a killer
a spoiler and
a sloping nose
it was slick and painted the
colors of the flag
and i had visions
of us - father and son -
hoisting our car above our
heads in some picayune glory
a first son to his father
is a casting of a long
projection of expectations onto
a canvas woven of past fears
what we want of him
is to validate our shadows
of doubt; a first son is
a way toward proof of life
my son esteemed me the way i
esteemed my own father and
he built for me as i had built
for mine a hall of statues
on race day we
let loose our crafted
car one after another
against those of others
anticipation was a wing
in the chest;
a man and son standing abreast
aflood with the expectation of something portentous
i looked down to my son's face
(years before i had to turn
my head up to see it)
and his eyes held in them crowns for a king
and in each heat
our car slid down that sloped
rail paired against a faster
foe and came to a pathetic empty stop
and after each
i looked less down to him feeling
the blush of shame and knowing his eyes shrunk
with every passing failure of our car
and in conclusion of the day
we took our slow dog
and went home wordless to each other
in our dismissal of evaporated illusions
and i told my son that i
was sorry for how it all went wrong
and the lights of the hall
of statues went dim that day
crowns and scepters are for kings
not mortal men: fathers to their sons are no
less regal, or so they say
but to this father, the pomp was precious
and with the passing of time
the car collected its dust
upon a shelf from home to
home and then disappeared altogether
the father shrunk
the son grew tall
statues are made to
be perched upon
by birds and fallen leaves
and time is expected to
do nothing but march and march
and laugh in the face of kings
