what a moment it is to have
shelved the bottle just as I’ve
learned a new game of cards.
hands keep busy as birds
outside run their errands
back and forth from the trees
to feed.
Dad and I play cribbage,
which I teach, with skills
only days ahead of his.
for months he’s pocketed
a dull desire to get a dog
but tells me, offhand,
the neighbors got a puppy
and he’s decided it’s too much
the birds already know so much,
of feeding, and flying.
I wonder if he felt the same
on the occasion of my birth,
30 and terrified of everything
that you must remember you know,
and then teach.
now I learn myself,
make things precious
unlike a child, but more
like a stone, tripped over,
not a given—
like being sent a poem,
indicating I was
remembered, a perfumed
silk scarf tied at my neck,
th
long after the text has left.
once Mom played hooky,
took us to see those
massive orange Gates
not unlike Hermès cravats,
not far from the carriages
and their shivering Horses
us all craning upward
to feel part of something greater.
I am t
jumping to reach.
