I feel the warm morning sun on my skin
when suddenly I'm a kid again.
And the possibilities of today
flood through my brain
like pouring water into a bucket of gravel.
Every tiny rock saturated,
every idea flawless.

The coffee *** gurgles and coughs its
Aromatic reaction.
A nosey sun squeezes through the
Kitchen curtains. Eggs hiss from the skillet
And last night's pints whisper.
And Monday is a thousand miles far.

It was finished the day it was started,
and we flew it on the football field near our house.
Spring.

We built it in the garage.
A diamond of wooden dowels
string, and newspaper.
I sat in amazement at your sudden display
of expertise in kite making.
That's how dads are,
full of secret professions.

It was quiet sitting on the sideline
watching our creation look so tiny
in the sky.

You danced to the song of fatherhood that day.
And I sat captivated in the audience.

Time passed and your song stopped.
The kite never flew again and
I forgot how to make another but,
I am still on that field
sitting cross-legged
with my chin
in my palms.

Watching.

I unscrew the plastic cap from the glass bottle
and pour another drink.
If I do this quietly enough she won't hear
what I'm doing from the other room.
I take my first sip and see my wife
appear in the doorway.
I smile and she tosses me a stare of objection.
She won't argue the whiskey back in the bottle.
She asks me for a sip and I smile harder handing her the glass
and I watch her face scrunch when she swallows.

Later we'll go to bed and I'll wonder if she is happy.
It's what she deserves.
I want to make her happy so bad that it burns
more than a thousand whiskeys.

My heart screams into a pillow.

Cold whiskey bleeds on my fingers.
The glass a poison dart frog
secreting toxins,
staving off a thick summer night
and it burns my throat.
When I look for the moon
I find it tangled in threads of cloud.
It shyly asks to be part of my thoughts.

I don't believe
my grandmother was ever
a little girl.
Or a young lady,
or a new mother.

Instead she spent
her whole life
being a grandmother.
My grandmother.
It's the only explanation

of her expertise
in the field.
I used to love
watching her write.
Her hand, with its

knotted fingers
wrapped in shiny skin,
producing quivering,
uniform letters. And her
eyes, glassy and pleading

when i'd say,'' I need to go now'',
much like mine
when her body
said the same. When
tomorrow ceased

to extend her a hand. I
remember.
I still remember.

With oiled arms
I carry
a crystal vase.
And

Steady I walk,
scolded
for not
running.

As a grown man
I have to steal
what you could
never give,

and make
what you
couldn't live.
I collect

and acquire
and mold with
fire, and
send it through

my charcoal filter.
What I'm left with,
a mellow sting
sipped before

the end
of a
bittersweet
fling.