Monday, January 5, 2015
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