I nod at a pair of slouched graybeards
by the entrance to a Denver Starbucks.
Coupla’ owlhoots, I growl.
Ariel, my daughter, raises her eyebrows—Say what?
You know—sort of like Yosemite Sam’s ‘varmint.’
Waiting for her chai, faster than a gunslinger,
she draws her Sidekick,
checks Dictionary.com
Nada.
Uh-oh, have I made this up?
More clicks, before Google opines
this may be a western regional term
rooted in outlaws’ use
of nighttime warning hoots.
Well, there you are! I pronounce.
Once again Air’s vocabulary expands
and my all-knowing fatherly ass
is saved.
I found one of the guilty pleasures of fatherhood to be, for a time, considered by my daughter as omniscient, a virtual living Wikipedia. This can (and should) be true only for a while. All too soon, and with any luck at all, the scale tips. My daughter the culture maven, has come to know a great deal about a great deal. She is also genetically disposed to be a truly accomplished bullshitter, which makes her even more formidable. So now our word play is sometimes like a good game of chess with a respected opponent, but more often is simply an appreciative tasting of words like sips of good wines.
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