Somewhere in the middle of the Midwest,
Eugene said, “What’s a dad bod?” to which Molly said,
“You know that sheriff on Stranger Things? He’s got one.”

People call the sheriff Hop, Fat Rambo, and Chief.
One of these nicknames was also my father’s.

Can only dads have a dad bod?

I once leapt the Flatiron building a few times. It glittered
green in every puddle on the street.
Some of the bubbles in my son’s bath are green like that.

When I point to the drum kit, he says moose,
and locks the puzzle piece in place as I say, Yes, moose,
because I can see the cymbal antlers
and the tom-tom eyes, the wet bass nose.

Our bodies are pretty much the same shape right now.
He has my paunch and curly hair
that looks like a crown when the light is just right.

What are the odds this will ever happen again?

Time and maladies will make sure we won’t
always look like upper and lowercase Wws
lounging on the couch.

His alphabet card for T has a picture of tulips
and a tortuga in a conductor’s hat
standing on what he calls a “toot toot.”

Even at my strongest in the year 1998
was I never more powerful than a locomotive.
Not even buff Rambo can claim a thing like that.

Our boy can count in two languages now.
His English word for 7 is sana
and sounds like one of those rooms where you go to sweat.

An abuela who chants, “Sana sana, colita de rana,”
can heal almost any playground wound.

In Oklahoma, some cops tested textbooks
to see if one could stop a speeding bullet.
Turns out three copies of Business Math
will stop rounds from an AR-15 and a handgun.

No reports on whether the copies of ¡Buen viaje!
stopped any rounds with its “14 manageable chapters
for teaching the skills to communicate when shopping,
talking about home, family, and friends.”

Like many parents, I’d rather offer up my body
instead of a bulletproof vest or Kevlar backpack.
This crooked pelvis has to be good for something.

If a dad bod falls in the woods and no one is around,
do his children make a sound?