The previous poem was for my daughter. I don’t know if my son will like this one because it doesn’t rhyme (“Lil Wayne and Drake’s stuff rhymes, Mom”), but I hope it’ll do.


While we ran errands, I thought it was morning, but

two-year-old you swore it was afternoon.

I learned then not to argue,


not when you said,

“I blow bubbles all the way to the moon,”

even though you blew them straight at the sun.

An ordinary backyard stick in your hands

became Stick The Great,

brandished at miles of unnamed villains


You ran down the hill and up,

all the way to school and back. Two miles —

every single day.


A crow swooped down and stole your brand-new glasses.

I said to give it up, but you gave chase.

The crow returned your treasure.


Contacts now.

On moonlit nights you run for untold miles, down the road

and up. When I come back from running errands

I say, “Good morning.” It’s already afternoon.