My son complains there is nothing to do, that he is bored to death.
I tell him to study the dictionary.
He ascends to his room upstairs. I don’t see him for days.
I begin to worry about his absence & he returns
to tell me something, perhaps what he has learned, I hope.
He says, We are the moral liars, of which little is writ of our true selves.
I say, Every single line is connected to every single line.
He says, You invent meaning to suit you. We all do. What makes the connections real?
I say, What I wanted you to capture from the exercise was knowledge.
He asks, So why do you snigger above what you have created?
I leave the question unanswered & step outside into the yard.
I realize my son has more potential than I.
But I wonder if he is too serious to ever be content or content others.
Writ is a lovely word.
Shannon Tate Jonas Poetry 