A bigger boy, pimples
like the ungentle world across his cheeks,
pushes my 8-year-0ld as they get on the bus.
I see it and I cannot pull my son
back to our kitchen, where he stood
just this morning in his socks,
with the refrigerator open long,
getting milk for his cereal.
Or to a drawer, with its reliable supply
of spoons. His own spot at the table.
to my own milk,
my own happy humiliation.
There with him in the night in our first home,
our hand-me-down chair.
Time stays bare and mean.
His unwillingness to sleep,
my milk-ache : easy
now, as the bus pulls away.