8

why I always come running

 

I hear you call my name-
soft
urgent;
come-here-quick.

Exasperation races to my lips.
The words hide behind my teeth waiting
while
I put down all the things I need to do.

Can’t you see I’m busy?

What-is-it-this-time becomes a hiccup when
I see your face
beaming like a five year-old with
a handful of tickets at the county fair.

It’s not the bird you point at while you shush me.
It’s not his proud red-ringed head or the feathers
on his belly:
I’m not even looking.

It’s the little boy who forgot the old man,
unrestrained by responsibility,
who makes me run to the window
and leave the kettle
boiling;
who shows me pink sunsets,
yellow-shafted flickers
and little white flowers.

He brings me smiles.

 

 

bolts of silk –january 2009

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