trying to write by Scott Ferry

and my 1-year-old son grips my leg

and slams the keyboard with a wet lego 

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i push his hands off but 

0 ; ;’’ 

so i throw another lego which he follows

but he shuffles back in milliseconds

pulling my arm hairs with a clammy palm

so i set the computer down

lift him cradle his downy head

until he kicks fishbodied 

back to the floor

after many hours of fathering 

i hide in my daughter’s room with a whiskey sour

and try to write again after i stare at the wall 

and the starry night reproduction with its oblong 

mauve swirls and nothing comes except

“fathers don’t have the luxury to be depressed”

my daughter comes in and demands that i read to her

like i normally do and i plan to just read 

the standard one chapter but it is the end of the book

and the mist-demon-blood-moon-goddess 

squelches the fire magic of our hero

until the golden time rope can be lassoed 

around her to send her into a timecage

three-and-a-half chapters later

i retreat to the living room with my laptop

and my wife greets me and we speak about interviews

new schools annoying neighbors pumpkin mochi which

gave everyone diarrhea and then she wants to show me

Instagram videos of sassy nurses in drag pretending

to be Kim Kardashian, ICU nurse

which i sadly laugh at

and succumb to writing this

real stretch of time with my actual family

outside of this cage of 

words 

Scott Ferry helps our Veterans heal as a RN. He has recent work in the American Journal of Poetry, Misfit, and Spillway. His second book, Mr. Rogers kills fruit flies, is available from Main St. Rag. You can find more of his work @ ferrypoetry.com.