Mr. Augustini calls my son Mad Dawg,
and has assigned him the task
of making up a nickname for him.
He keeps a coffee-table-book
of mafia leaders in his desk, says
it reminds him of old friends,
keeps the kids in line, he winks.

On the phone the other night I say,
why not call him one of those guys?
He'd like that. Silence on the line,
and I fear I've gone too far, trespassed
into a private party where it wasn't cool
to have Dad roaming the room,
telling stories, passing the Cheetos.

The pause grows long, but turns out
he was just thinking hard. "The God Father!"
he shouts. I ask today if his teacher
liked the name. "Actually, Dad he chose
the name you mentioned." I wonder, were Mom
still alive what she would say
about this educator who'd befrended
her grandson, who was almost too cool
for dad, this Louie, the Ice Pick.

Copyright 2006
David J. Bauamn