Let me lollygag

Walking the dog
around the block
takes me ten minutes
takes you an hour.

You pick up sticks, rocks
pieces of plastic that resemble toys
bugs, leaves, marbles
all of it, fair game
for your collectability.

My adult brain fights this.
It wants to go
go
go
Keep moving. 
Get there on time.
C’mon, kiddo.

But you’re crouched down 
in a perfect 
ergonomically correct
squat
as you gape over the object
in your tiny grasp.

Your eyes like galaxies
they beam at it.
Wow, Dad…
Can you hold this?
And this?
And this?

The stick family
piles up on the front stoop
one family member after another
filling up a warm corner of your mind.

No, I said. 
But part of me now sees
how I’m ‘correcting’ the 
inquisitiveness 
behind those eyes.

Let them lollygag.

Lollygagging is beautiful.
It rails against the clock
and says
time is for me
time to wonder
time to explore.

Your dinner party be damned.
Your lame adult deadlines
are nothing to me.

I am free of this.
I was born free of it.
Please don’t numb my curiosity.

One day you’ll wonder why I don’t stop
to smell the roses
or why I’m so busy 
chasing that carrot 
that you chase.

You’ll wonder
why I don’t ask questions
or why I can’t enjoy the simple things.

I am, Dad. 
I do this naturally.
Please don’t train me
away from myself.

Let me lollygag.
And I’ll take you places
you’ve never seen before.

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