“Mom and Dad” By Matt Hubert © 2007

Writing words I never heard,
his vociferous vocabulary
fills poems that
provide a frightening
ride inside his mind
where his thoughts lie
intimidating mine.
I remember being taught,
or so I thought, that poetry
must rhyme at the end
of the line. Then he read one
aloud—of course I was proud,
but what the heck
does “vociferous” even mean?
Didn’t learn it from me.

He expresses best on paper—
things I never thought to think.
Questioning,
suggesting things
about life and love
and faith, something
he never heard me praise.
Told not to mold him—
unlike clay art,
a model of my creation
capable of modeling me.
Now he molds,
writing with a flair for
originality,
capturing reality
almost every day
in compact stanzas.
Didn’t learn it from me.

We know not of anaphora,
hyperbole or diction.
We cannot boast about
first prize poems
Yet we proudly claim the poet
outside the lines
as we know him—
Son. First-born. Ours.