Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

The other day, Ethan asked me if I wanted to hear a poem he’d made up. I beamed. My boy, the future English major! We were just settling in for the nightly ritual of stories before bedtime. 

“Sure,” I say. “I’d love to hear your poem.”

“OK, daddy,” he says. He plops onto my lap in his reading chair. “Are you ready?”

“Ready, buddy.”

“When lightning and thunder tear the night in two—”

So far so good, I’m thinking. Very vivid. Truly poetic, even.

“—I will come downstairs and lick you!”

Annnnnnd then I remembered he’s just four years old.

Funny kid, that Ethan. Perhaps not a future Poet Laureate, but still—funny.