The pain begins. It’s always
in somebody
else’s
face
first.
I want to be
unhappy
like that couple
clinging
desperately
and serve my children
safety in the
endless woods.
Here too far North
for the graffiti
they can make like
there are standards
still
and towns, and I
fall into their spell
so readily—
I cheer for sons
who cannot throw the ball
pull daffodils for daughters
who no longer
tolerate ballet
to get an ice cream cone.
I hear the explanations
—everything that’s lost
from father’s mouth to son,
and see kids in
sharp dominance of voice
because there’s only
so much pride
and adoration
to go around.
But then, amid the ducks
and keening bleachers
I hear some parents talk
of dismal holidays
because the rainbow
canyons
and waterfalls
like emeralds
could not be shared.
Their voices lower as I walk by
and despite the trickling
of the stream, the shush
of distant motors
there’s still some
solitary thing, some
breathing.