Degeneration
I have never noticed before,
how dark your eyes can really be,
lines seeping in like water,
when you write for the first time
about our son and how you don’t
want him to grow up.
I remember the story of you
crying the night before
your fourth birthday
because you wanted to stay three
forever and across town
we watch your daddy shrink,
pants fall to his ankles like rain to a puddle
and he shuffles and shuffles ,
past the bad mantras on the wall about
living for today,
a head on a table,
a head to a chin,
shuffle and shuffle,
through air like chicken soup and urine,
through memories of big trucks and the Jersey shore,
past his grandson and
the new green football,
towards the open window,
back to being small.
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