Daddy, what's it called

Before this poem begins, which by accident of 'octopus predictions' qualifies for Lost Menagerie, I should contextualize my recent rash of poems. Our first official day of the teaching year 2014-15 began today favorably, if in the sorrow of news: many of our students are from Ukraine and Russia, Kurdistan, Israel, Arab states; a dear colleague Karen Ercolino lost her mother last week after burying her father last spring; Robin Williams featured for several years in English 9 as the 'Dead Poets Society' voice of reason and subversion--and now this man is dead. Technically, my own kids Joey, Ben and Em are happily being Bohemian in the non-connected woods of Krkenose and Romania, so they aren't actually asking the questions of the poem below. But--poetic liberties presiding--I feel they'd parlay in such a spirit. The poem begs more than it's title:

                Daddy, what's it called

Daddy, what’s it called when everyone and no one sees what’s coming?

September Eleventh? Pimples on prom night? Amputation of the Invisible Hand? German dominance in the ‘beautiful game’? The debunking of octopus predictions? ISIS? Irrelevance of social networks? Relevance of walks in woods? The death of Robin Williams?

Say that last again…

The death of—

Don’t you mean ‘Awakenings’?

The film?

The attempt to massage the living dead to a status that matters, drugs or no drugs,…

Drugs or no drugs?

Dead or not dead—you said Robin Williams—

Yes, I did

This isn’t a parlor game, I hope

Google search destroyed that bit of fun

Robin Williams dead

He was bouncing off the walls

And sometimes made me laugh

He quoted poets wide and deep

And sometimes made me cry

His movies rarely satisfied

And one would think that doubt would add some weight into his sink

Shazbot!

Who’s speaking at this point?

You know—don’t dissemble now

Dad?

Don’t worry—I’m not awakening now

What? wake up!

I’m full awake. And well aware of how one lies insensate.

Can’t we get back to pimples on prom night?

Of course we can. That, in fact, is what all soulful clowns redact.

Redact?

A greater term than react. What’s it called when—

no one sees what’s coming?

Yes—what’s that called?

It’s called a need to sometimes have a dad