My favorite poet just flew into town from his Paris abode, accompanied by his lovely French amour. As a result, I may be remiss for a while in visiting with you, or following up on your comments. Please forgive me. His visit does remind me of the alternating polarity many of us with children continue to experience. In that vein, I offer you the following poem.
He can create an original screenplay
according to Hollywood format
but the spell-check bypasses flaws
like "their our" for "there are."
He can select a reputable cast
and conduct an organized read-through
but can’t find his graph calculator
in time for algebra class.
He can set up a two-camera shoot
and direct everything but the weather
but eight plus seven and common division
are glitches that routinely stall his momentum.
He’s a master of cinema technique
steady between the close-up and the wide
who can cut, fade and dissolve with aplomb
but sometimes forgets how to open his locker.
And now the piece de resistance –
the analog-digital editing conversion,
a feat in my eyes beyond Darien’s peak
accomplished sans mentor and manual this week.
But Monday the video maker, my son,
has misplaced his shoes for the drive to school
and his pencils for class are gathering dust
in the door well of Dad’s Oldsmobile.
Jerome L. McElroy