The only things real are grief and joy.
As seagulls try out wheelies in the sky
between blacktops, my children earn their wings
on toys that were a history lesson
when I was young. I leave my cell on mute,
the better to see you with. And you’re here,
your Big Wheel racing past my orison,
my hand outstretched, delirious to be
catcher or caught, to tumble into all
the blessing at this winking moment’s heart.
You are not gone. The streets are still calling,
a day or two before the dawn of time.
I breathe you in amidst the reeling mews,
and carry nothing, but your life in mine.