If I were a single Dad,
60 years old, still raising kids,
working, making it work,
somehow,
mostly,
I’d write poetry.
We’d have too many pets to count,
eat above our pay grade,
have way too much desert,
be lazy,
rude,
hilarious,
and I’d write poetry,
about the impossibility of our love,
how large it is, how it swallows me before dawn
when I picture both of them sleeping safely
in their beds that hold them like I used to every night,
cherished but still balanced on the edge of life,
waiting to become something new.
I would worry of course,
feel there was no safety net,
wonder when it all comes apart,
and then remind myself that today I will put food in front of them,
tell them through benedictions of laundry, waking up when the alarm was ignored, and driving, driving and more drivings,
how wonderful they are,
to me and the world that is only just discovering them.
I might look for a prayer someone else has written
to encompass the beauty I’m awash in
the gratitude I feel,
but I wouldn’t find one,
so I’d have to write poetry instead.
