Poem: August 8, 2019

Redefined

The other day, as my daughter
headed out to work, I said,
Don't take any wooden nickels! 
a phrase I picked up as a kid,
probably from Saturday cartoons,
and, of course, my daughter said,

What are you talking about?

Even my wife (9 years younger.
Go me.) stared, confused, as if
maybe I had just experienced
an aneurism, which is how I know
my relevance is fading here.

I remember when my daughter
would gobble up the things
I said, even repeat them,
the weirder the better. Don't
take any wooden nickels would
have killed back then, instead of
eliciting an eye roll, exasperation.

Why are you so EXTRA? or some
sarcastic, open-handed Okay, Dad...

And yesterday, my wife reports
that after I had gone to bed,
the two of them stayed up late
to talk about sexism, and
apparently I'm the worst. I'm
not Woke. Also my memes are old.

But I feel woke, and I don't feel
extra, and I can look at shifting sand
and explain how it is shifting, and
I know that Age-ism exists, so
how about them apples, sister?

And don't we all want to keep hold
of our cool, to stay in the conversation,
to be challenged to adapt, and not
be handed a That's just Dad, as if
I can't be changed, like I'm best left
to my Bugs Bunny and my patriarchy,

like when you pack up your room,
and some things don't make it in the box.