Memories of Ben

[tectak]

He’s ten years old
Pokomon hyper-focused
Quoting statistics I can’t comprehend
All I can remember is Pikachu
While he’s all over it
Glued to the television set
Eyes alight with childlike joy
Consumed by an obsession
I just have to nod and agree with
Cause I got lost somewhere in the upgrades

And it’s red cars, specifically convertibles
Counting every one we pass
That have his hands pressed against
The car window in delight
Which is better than the
Constant, “Are we there yet?”
When he’s bored and un-stimulated
Can’t forget it’s all about Ben

I’ve never seen someone devour
The matrix of a puzzle with such mastery
500 pieces in under an hour
Laid out in perfection
On the living room floor
And I’m in awe
While he’s chattering away
In the never ending stream of ideas
That burst forth from his consciousness

Tears and screams of frustration
When they’re interrupted his flow
And he can’t understand why
Someone has to be watching
Something that isn’t Dragon Ball Z
In his time slot, his routine
The very flow he gets mad at
When the TV people change the program
And don’t tell him in the guide
Which he pours over like it’s his religion

And it saddens me that no one has the time
Or the energy to sit and listen to the talk
2About anime and Angelina Jolie movies
When he never slows down
To take a breath
It’s all “Shut up Ben…”
When he just wants to share his fascinations
And have someone be as excited as he is
So I sit with him, though I’m drained
And being pretentious about Pokemon

At times I’m wondering how I have the patience
When his blood just drop him off
In front of the television screen
Like it will solve the issue of Ben
While blowing a fuse when he fights
For the rights to the comforts he knows
And I’m sure they love him
But they’re all pushing him around
And he’s biting back with anger
That a smack around the head won’t fix

I watch disgusted, fights that could be avoided
And when the calm's rolled over the house
I take a tired breath and get him talking Yu-Gi-Oh
He’s got the cards out and I’m oh’ing and ah’ing
Admiring the artwork, which I have to admit
Is pretty damn cool
And it’s not hard to be interested when
It’s one of the few shows we have in common
He likes it for the game, and I like it for the magic
If I could keep up with his thought process
I might have learnt something useful

Nine years later and I can still picture his face
Remember the chatter and the holes in the walls
The wonderful way he’d get so excited
By the simplicity of life, that I couldn’t help but smile
At the dead bugs in a jar he kept as pets
Talking to them with so much love in his eyes
And I’ll never forget the time I managed to stump
His wonderful puzzle know-how
When I bought him a holographic 3D puzzle
For his eleventh birthday

Time changes everything though I have to laugh
That some things never change
While he’s all grown up now
Over 6ft tall and slightly terrifying
His mind still chasing after red convertibles
And drooling over Angelina Jolie
With a wicked memory for stats
That I wouldn’t want to contend with
While he’s completing 1000 piece puzzles
In under an hour

© Indie Adams 2012

Hello indie. I'm glad you posted this but would ask that you excuse my initial comments if they are blatantly wrong.
This is the kind of poetry, I am talking subject matter here, that you-a proud mum-would send to grandma in England after you emigrated to New Zealand. Nothing wrong with that UNLESS that is ALL you write.
Criticism is difficult in work like this because poetic endeavour is totally swamped by the single emotional and overbearing pride expressed by the writer. The personification of the subject by giving a name, Ben, makes the piece almost unreadable because it feels that I would be invading private thoughts........so......point 1 (at last ), it needs depersonalising for general consumption.
Point 2. You will find I have now mounted my hobby horse. Look, and I will get a slamming for this, anyone can see that this whole piece could be rewritten into a letter-back-home without bothering to make it "look" like poetry. There is no rhythm, meter or rhyme scheme. Just breaking up text into random lines and capitalising the first letter does nothing to create poetry.
Point 3. Because you have a dedicated subject, one that you are expert in, could I gently suggest a rewrite with a conversion to rhyming verse. It would be a great disciplinary exercise.
Best,
Tectak