when we sing “happy birthday” and it’s time to blow out the candles
he pauses, eyes welling up, but no tears
(like a man might. he’s three.) and he blows and then rubs his eyes gently
then turns to the task of cake-cutting

at that age (five) the girls all love to participate
the boys take a bit of persuasion, but join
eventually. it’s not so popular to make gender-based
observations, but watch how they’re playing

paperwork workday schoolwork homework workshift
handiwork workaholic worksheet keywork
woodwork needlework worker social work bodywork
the devil’s work a woman’s work the good work

it’s nearly may. the morning bird-song is just
beginning to build momentum, and the smoking
tree is much less lush than this time last year.
what will summer sound like?

i try first with the flute to find the changes
(the guitar got left at the church) then hack
away at the piano, getting lost–
a truly heartrending ballad

the workday’s done, (if you can call it work),
the body rests (if you can call
it still), the mind moves (if you call the same
old expectations ‘moving’)

i wheel the trusty bike off to the market
pedal and coast, and then i park it
i shop and race back home, and what a dope
forgot the laundry soap

laurel likes to punch me in the stomach
and loves the slap-hands games my dad
used to play with me. we cover our faces, make elephant trunks,
adapt to each other’s sizes

we tuned our voices, weekly, ’til our intervals
finally physically jumped and shook
the wood we stood on. then, it was done. no point
in dwelling on the past.

the wind can’t quite decide which way to blow
a busload of kids, chattering voices
and basketballs bouncing, echoing off of housefronts, a helicopter,
the train. then suddenly, silence.