while I picked
my nose

my son played
kick the can

he was never in the room

but he learned it
anyway

or

my son is the carpet
I am his sky

it’s not as bad as it looks

I try to stay clear
keep my nose clean

or

my son is the seabed
I shade.  I am his surface:

a sky for fish benighted

shifting nets of sunlight
that pull a fish’s eye
like stars

or

he stands stiff
nose against
the pane

waiting – never
in the room,
mind you –

for them to
take me out

 

Inspired by Big Tent Poetry’s prompt about possessions.

Posted August 13, 2010.