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.
I cannot pull him back
to my own milk,
my own happy humiliation.
There with him in the night in our first home,
our hand-me-down chair.
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.
