He trundles sidelong like a drunken crab,
his cap skewed at a fetching angle, feet
fat from his mother's milk, and rose and white,
push-pull along the carpet; fingers grab
the walker's tray for balance, arms splayed wide.
The saddle that he rises out of keeps
him from calamity, from the collapse
of limbs that slacken quickly, unafraid.
He bumps and knocks until he swings the door,
then whines until I can't write; wounded eyes
make their appeal through tears until I rise
and nudge him back into the corridor,
for which he wails. His cries are genuine.
Dad pushed him out, who should have pulled him in.
Note: This poem is about my beloved and precious boy, Jordan. This edited in 11.15.13
his cap skewed at a fetching angle, feet
fat from his mother's milk, and rose and white,
push-pull along the carpet; fingers grab
the walker's tray for balance, arms splayed wide.
The saddle that he rises out of keeps
him from calamity, from the collapse
of limbs that slacken quickly, unafraid.
He bumps and knocks until he swings the door,
then whines until I can't write; wounded eyes
make their appeal through tears until I rise
and nudge him back into the corridor,
for which he wails. His cries are genuine.
Dad pushed him out, who should have pulled him in.
Note: This poem is about my beloved and precious boy, Jordan. This edited in 11.15.13
