the best of times

it's hard to tell
your son how poor you
were as a kid. but you
try. you think it
might give him some
perspective on
his own life.
he's sitting there
on his phone, on
his computer,
watching tv
and playing a
video game while
reading a book. his
hundred and twenty
dollar tennis
shoes rest casually
on the coffee table.
it's like talking
about the great
depression to him.
you are Charles Dickens
making up a long winded
story of the worst
of times.
he shrugs it off,
and says, sure dad,
sure. you tell
him about the holes
in your shoes,
putting slices
of cardboard
in the soles
to make them
last another day.
the church
leaving baskets of food
on the front porch.
the shared beds
and rooms of all
seven kids. the electricity
going off.
not having a car,
but walking everywhere.
cutting grass for money.
the paper routes,
collecting bottles
for two cents a piece.
the welfare department
stopping by to see
where they should
take and put everyone.
all of this makes
him yawn and say,
dad, are we cooking out
on the grill tonight,
I haven't had lobster
and a nice sirloin
in a while. maybe you
can pick up a nice
Malbec too.