They're having father-son breakfasts
all over Oklahoma today.
Maybe I'm making it up,
but I like thinking about that,
thinking about Oklahoma this morning,
saying the word Oklahoma and tasting eggs.
Maybe I like thinking of my son,
walking with him in Tulsa,
pointing out the oil rig on someone's lawn.
Here's Olson's Hardware,
and right next to it, Mae's Luncheonette,
just like anywhere except it's Oklahoma,
land of desert and sun and dust,
and corn too, I think.
My son says he's thirsty
so we get some Oklahoman soda-pop
made of sarsaparilla, with a touch of sumac,
and that's all right with him.
I love to hear him glub-glub it down,
tilting his face to the Oklahoman sky,
catching the last sip in the bottle.
We'd like to see a movie next,
something Oklahoman, with two steers in it,
maybe a pick-up right out on the prairie,
and the stars just beginning to scintillate.
And doesn't it seem ok to use scintillate
in a poem about Oklahoma, or my son and me
in Oklahoma, because so many things are happening?
And should we wait for the movie to finish
or walk far out into that Oklahoman night
where the land drops off into darkness
and everything is listening to everything else?