Sunday sleep in, my daughter
blows giggle farts on my belly.
The hollow place swells arc
of ribs just below each armpit.
Breakfast with the nuthatch,
chestnut chickadee; we need more cereal.
Coconut lime is this woman’s lyric scent,
sugar music stained brown, her mind's voice.
Wake in the living room, the squirrel
bitches about the 'squirrel proof' feeder.
She and I exchange insomnia. Sleep
is Time: a deity undeserving of worship.
On my daughter's second day of school,
she kneels in the wrong line, blooms a cry.
I snore loud, often, still have my tonsils.
Women in my life need to start sleep first.
I cannot hear my wife over rain
pelting the empty puddle of my gut
that lies beyond the front door,
refuses to enter this dry home.
The bedroom has become a furnished
trampoline of unsaid silence,
yet motel rooms are bereft of backyards,
the bounce of birds in maples.
I fly a kite with my daughter
off the edge of a cliff.
To jump is to test fly the kite, would both of us
sink the sail, break the string?
Fall or flight: a constant contemplative choice,
the depth worth the height of the view.
Date of Birth:
October 30, 1957
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