why I always come running
I hear you call my name-
Exasperation races to my lips.
The words hide behind my teeth waiting
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
who shows me pink sunsets,
and little white flowers.
He brings me smiles.