Grrr. My wife is super sick and I’m stretched crazy thin, trying to work 8-hour day, nursemaid and babysit, plus getting up at 4AM to keep the baby from going nuts. Dude. I’m sleepy.

Poem anyway.

The Manthroom is a myth.

Matthew Perry idea of exclusive domain,
Testosterone Land in estrogen ocean.
Wife moved out to enjoy a whole bath tub,
tired of oppressive autumnal color scheme.
Left me envisioning
comic book art,
succinct but solid stereo,
maybe even mini fridge.

Vision falls flat
As infant hand pound door
during morning tooth brushing,
disintegrate as door flies open,
Finding feminine products
still secreted under sink.

Every second NASCARs against time,
Waiting to see who or what needs where now?
Let shower water Swedish massage shoulders
Enjoying the silence.

“Gentleman’s Time”
By Hannibal Tabu

Written at 11:38PM on Monday from the Manthroom.

Playing (Music): “Doompasage” by Sha-key

Right. So, I’m now two days behind. I hate being behind on National Poetry Writing Month. I checked to count how many I’d done on Friday, and that clearly jinxed me. Argh.

Some would say my wife becoming infirm, which required me to step up and be both parents, played a role. I don’t like to use excuses.

Lessee what we have here.

She swears that zebras are dogs.

Correct her
Parenting is repetition, but
logic runs flawlessly
through fifteen-month old mind.
Four legs.
Tail.
Snout thing.
Dog.
Sure, seems legit.
Black and white pattern on cows
Close enough to call the same,
Story time becomes debate society.

Parenting is repetition,
so every morning she sees stuffed animal,
calls it canine,
smirks at tired attempt at fix.

Messing with me, it seems,
works for all household’s women
regardless of age.

“Parenting is repetition”
By Hannibal Tabu

Written at 11:31PM on Monday from the Manthroom.

Playing (Music): “Who’s Your Daddy?” by Mook ‘n Fair feat. DJ Webstar

I am a man of rituals. Both absent minded and heavily scheduled, rituals and habits keep the trains running. This morning, between Flipboard and making a bottle full of almond milk, this came to me.

Almost faultless alarm clock,
You greet sunrise with cry to pierce slumber.
I stagger to comfort,
iPad and pajama pants in hand,
to begin our ritual.

Books can be read seven times in a row
or flipped through by tiny hands.
Growing vocabulary handles “book” and “more”
as same set of toys and pages
Deliver new delights daily.

Play no music,
Hoping wife can sleep through chatter and clatter,
Woodblock elements from Melissa and Doug
Against brushed metal bookcase.

Mornings are for baby,
Both shielding family from her AM enthusiasm
While giving her concentrated Baba for her day.
Evenings are for eldest daughter,
Wife gets the night,
It’s mathematics of fatherhood,
Square rooted with devotion
Like an Android tablet.

Might be animated Latinas one day,
She’ll be rushing to other ideas
Farther down the road.
But Sunday morning’s,
Just baby and baba,
Room strewn with books and toys
And hugs until breakfast
Even if she still insists
a zebra is a “doggie.”

“Early Mornings With Fuss”
By Hannibal Tabu

Much to do …

Playing (Music): “Come Sunday” by Les Nubians