Jun 2014
This stupid book has nothing to offer me
In eight pages on stiff paper board.
The pictures are saccharine,
A fat headed boy
In colorful clothes
Shows us what he can do.
How could I see the value
In knowing this simple stuff?
I’m too far removed from my point in time
When “jump” and “run” were just sounds,
When jumping and running were just what they are,
Far removed from the labels we gave them.
So it comes to this: this stupid book
Among all of God’s ink-sodden paper,
Is an achievement of gold,
the height of literature,
a swell in my throat,
When you brought it to me
just today, and said,
“dada”
“read”
In eight pages on stiff paper board.
The pictures are saccharine,
A fat headed boy
In colorful clothes
Shows us what he can do.
How could I see the value
In knowing this simple stuff?
I’m too far removed from my point in time
When “jump” and “run” were just sounds,
When jumping and running were just what they are,
Far removed from the labels we gave them.
So it comes to this: this stupid book
Among all of God’s ink-sodden paper,
Is an achievement of gold,
the height of literature,
a swell in my throat,
When you brought it to me
just today, and said,
“dada”
“read”
I never liked reading that book. When my daughter asked me to read it specifically, I knew it wasn't because it held some special place in her toddler heart. She wasn't talking much, but she said those two words to me, holding out that stupid book, and I realized why we read together. It's to BE together, *******, just as much as anything. I understood so much in that moment.
.
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