these moments

Twelve hours the first day, sixteen the second,
Twelve the third, only eight on the fourth,
Sixteen on the fifth, twelve on the sixth,
And on the seventh day, I rested.
Sixteen hours on the eighth and sixteen more on the ninth.
One hundred and eight hours stuck at work—
It just works out to twelve hours a day, not really that big of a deal, right?
So why do I feel so dead tired?
So sick of seeing these same four walls,
So sick of hearing the same old droning nonsense.
I run outside for a smoke, to skate,
End up skating and smoking at the same time,
Missing ollies, hitting cracks,
saving my face at the last second by putting my hand out.
Blame it on the wind, the pebbles strewn about the lot,
Lowest bidder applied the last coat of asphalt,
Cheap and quick, the way the government likes it.

“what are you doing, learning how to skate?”
no, not really, trying to relearn, I guess.
“so you can skate with your kids?”
yeah, I suppose that’s why.
“I saw these dudes skating once, they were actually good.”
Unlike me, you’re saying . . .
“they were jumping stairs and stuff, like them guys on the movies.”
Yeah, I’m just learning.
“you skate and smoke? Don’t that defeat the purpose?”
Yep, sure does. Gotta quit.
“I’m just glad my kids don’t skate—that looks dangerous.”
I’m trying to get my son to get more comfortable on his board,
He needs to ride it more to make that happen.

Maaaaan. Why do I even bother talking to her?
She’s always got everything all figured out,
Has her own preconceived notion about whatever it is,
Why do I bother trying to answer any of her questions?
I doubt she even listens to anything I ever say,
Might as well be speaking Thai for all she cares.
I am tying to find myself, lady, will you just let it drop?
Just leave it alone—it’s got nothing to do with you o.k.?
I enjoy skating. I enjoy the punk rock muzak.
Sorry if you don’t understand.
It makes me happy, makes me feel alive.
Maybe your old man went through the same, long ago,
Discovered hitting a golf ball gives him that thrill.
Or maybe he rides his Harley on weekends,
Or sneaks off to bang his girlfriend or whatever.
I don’t look forward to coming to work and seeing any of you,
That’s not what gets me out of bed in the morning.
That’s not what lights the fire in my belly,
Not on your life, lady.
I gotta do something, gotta look forward to something,
The nine-to-five can kill you, suck the life right out of you,
Get caught in a rut, waiting for the payday,
Just to get the bloodsuckers off your back.
I gotta look forward to something, right?

The boy, Z-man, is currently at—I’m afraid to say it . . .
Band Camp.
He could’ve gone to Skate Camp, but no,
He’s at Band Camp.
Apparently, it’s a very good Band Camp,
It had better be for what grandma paid for it.
But he went with his best buddy Bart,
Ran into some old friends from his old school.
It’s a learning experience, a growing experience,
It should be alright, ten days without my Z.
Little E has been missing his big bro,
Seems real clingy, told me “I lub you daddy”,
Told me not to go to work, not to leave.
Not sure which one of us is having the hardest time,
It’s probably me, not willing to let my babies grow up.
I want to protect them, to keep an eye on them,
At all times, in all situations,
But at some point I have to let them venture out,
To experience the world and deal with it on their terms.
I still can’t believe he’s starting high school in the fall,
My little Nan is starting middle school as well.
I am getting old, aren’t I?
Where did the time go, how did it slip away so fast?
My twentieth high school reunion is next year,
Wonder if I’ll get an invite, wonder if I’ll even go.
Can’t imagine telling my classmates I have a high schooler,
Not that unusual, what was I, twenty-three when he was born?
Just a kid, the nurses thought my wife and I were teenagers,
I always looked young for my age, but we were just kids,
I thought I knew everything, didn’t know a thing.
My oldest son, on the cusp of adulthood,
Just not ready for it, want to slow it down,
So I can enjoy these moments.
But the fleeting nature of these moments—
is what makes them so special.