Have I reckoned much
or well the tears
that fall from my face?
The child’s flailing and
running with legs too
short to cover the
exposed ground of
insecurity and helplessness
that opens the cavernous
gulf of unknown between us.
My midget legs all eager
and twitch and glisten
with bruises and blood
from the cavernous leaps,
the jumps of joy, the
toddler twists that have
so mangled my bones
and body among these
razored rocks.
Have I reckoned much
these razored rocks? And
cavernous gulf that
lay exposed in no
exotic locale – but
gape dark and endless
at the end of mere
sidewalks and dailiness.
The heroism of any day,
the willingness not to
expire before sundown ought
to prompt my waving hand
and flowered lapel or
ticker-tape parade through
downtown Manhattan.
Have I reckoned
much tomorrow?
After a day of
no parade and
no hands and no flowers.
The gaping, toothless
mouth of time laid
open before me and
tomorrow’s path leads
nowhere else. Nor
the next.
I trudge and sometimes
jump and skip, though
my toddler days are past
right into the abyss with flannel, pen, and paper.