I know nothing to be honest.
To be honest w/ my child, who isn't
mine but for the five hours they,
the agency, the state, authorize
me to be someone for the child.
Someone, this that I embrace
as much as three pages daily,
my bright lights casted
in the background, uncluttered
the sound of cars smashing
into each other, across the
stubbled polymer surfaces.
Hollow most children's objects
are, so that they can fill.
Everyday filling these voids
that most of us have
difficulty acknowledging.
He stands there, not wanting,
nor tired, nor fat as I,
filling the objects that
make up his day
his new world.
---
Christian teaches me rather than
vice versa. I write of him
since he cannot of me.
I reach out, up, for things,
like cranes do.
He brings them together,
throws them apart, like a
dozer. We're a team, he and I,
in the chaos where
we meet thrice a week, we
make things happen.
His mind is furiously quick.
I just get furious quickly.
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