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.