I don't think I've dreamed his face in years
but his voice is the first and last thing I hear.
My son seems to know I'm battering words,
welding, snapping, twisting
until the lines between
our brains and our eyes
Are clear, open and busy.
I love supernanny, superbikes with big fat engines
I could never get my leg over
I love baggy white shirts, skinny boy shaped girls
with souls as old and as hard as mountain tops
Men who swing there arms when they walk
even when they are sedated, wounded and bleeding
buggies with three wheels and big beautiful places to push them.