bedtime

greg on the typewriter

so small
his fingers
could not
put enough
pressure
on the keys
to form
language.

How I passed the Comprehensive: Lights out at 7:30, a poem.

Top drawers no longer
mine filled with

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa socks too small
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa for my feet.

he is growing up
He is growing out
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa His space extends
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa beyond bunk beds.

The bookshelves are packed
stacked with old volumes

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Sherlock Holmes handed down
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa & blocked out by a plastic fire truck.

“I lost my first tooth today”
pressed under a pillow

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa that smells of apple juice
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa not sweat.

a first grader who wants
to be a fireman (not a writer)

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa HE is growing up
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa HIS brother is growing out.

a return to old projects: A celebration of 50 years

50 years ago they
were married,

Brooklyn NY & a
church with dancing.

Two years later Hawaii
became the 50th state.

Now they visit
in celebration of passing time

& bring coconut banks &
hula dolls back

for all their grandchildren.

Amy & Greg visit & illustrate poems.

september snow globe

Greg likes snow globes.
The way the world encapsulated
in a bubble can slow,
& each plastic flake
falls, glides to the ground,
settled.

I have one of the city—
the Empire State, the Statue
of Liberty & the Twin Towers.
It’s his favorite.
He shakes it up--arms flailing
as a four year old who hasn’t
fully figured how his body works
does--& waits with breath held
for the ten seconds
of falling to be
over.

“The snow never sticks to the towers,”
Greg says. He tells me:
“It’s because they are so tall,
so tall they are part of the sky.”
They are Greg.
They are.