My Son's an All-Star Speller

My Son’s an All-Star Speller

WRITTEN BY MACEO J. WHITAKER
My son’s the baddest lad in Sunnyside, Queens.
My son roughed up not only honors kids but also

the honors teacher. My son still pulled an A.
My son hopped the turnstile to surf on the E-

train to Rego Park to Kew Gardens to Jamaica +
back. My son does not spit sunflower seeds.

My son spits sunflowers. My son spits suns.
My son has a firm secret handshake

named EARTHQUAKE that takes Flushing Creek
waves down the Atlantic to Neptune,

New Jersey. Turning spumes on fumes, my son
hawks fake gold spoons from womb to tomb

then schools his foes on who vs. whom.
At the spelling bee, his adversary Jimmy Roe

(all pomp) nailed psoriasis + sarcophagus
but fumbled a gimme: “sacrilege.” My son

stepped to the mic + spelled vivisepulture.
Vivisepulture (n.): the act of burying alive.

My son put Jimmy Roe in a viselike headlock,
then mock-vivisepulture position before releasing

the runner-up from his clutches. My son won
the spelling bee; he won bullying; he won empathy.

My son can spell awry, rhythm, + ukulele, + —
oh, most definitely — he can spell trouble.

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I know that sometimes I can go a little overboard with praising Linebreak and featuring poetry from that website--it is just so easy because the poems are delivered in my email in-box. If you haven't signed up for Linebreak yet, you really should. My posts about the novels I am reading usually have some substance too. I have more to say.

But I just could not help myself with this poem today.

I wish that more poems were fun like this one. This is a fun poem. It doesn't pretend to be something super serious or deep, it is just a story and I love that. I mean, we could spend quite a bit of time talking about the poem and its structures. Or maybe an hour or two on its theme, but sometimes I like a poem to just be a poem. A fun read and nothing more.

This is a fun read. 

Enjoy.