The Send-off

I am not garlanded 

by curbside gathering

to marvel at newness

on this first night.

My deflated belly having sufficed 

as incubation where balmy dusk 

ascends. Your carbon copy, 

my exhaustion, the once impossible 

smallness of bodies containing life, 

now teeth filled and hair topped.

There is no tentative backside of

a 7-year old's forefinger against 

your four-day old cheek, enrapt

as hushed shapes 'so soft’ are made.

She does not graze pad-side

of same index against your knee

in awe of its scab formation.

and say 'How wonderful

your capacity is for  

healing now little boy!’ 

Clutching a red piece of Disney 

branded wheel-bound plastic

for you, I take vague leave

of space you first entered 

from womb into, quietly,

and do not return tomorrow

to heap too much syrup

on half moon pancakes. 

The neighbors don’t so much

notice these days. For in their world

now we are as commonplace

as the furniture that will be

left behind.