Why write poems when they don’t make you rich?

Sometimes,
you find yourself
picking up packages for your wife
at the drugstore, and you realize the other husbands
have been sent there too, and this other guy had a bouquet
of poinsettias to bring home, and you, only her package of vitamins,
so you rush home, pour your affection into a pumpkin soup
and in return, at the table, she dances.

Sometimes,
when you take
your son to school, he reaches out
his hand before taking a step, like you were the key
to the engine of his small body, but then he asks why
you were in a rush, because he couldn’t keep up
and he’s slowing you down, then you realize
that’s what you need.

Sometimes,
you ask your daughter
to go with you to the supermarket
and she sneaks in some snacks in the cart,
but you pretend not to see it, because you recognize yourself
as a boy, so you act surprised when she thanks you at the counter,
happy she keeps the rituals of childhood
for another day.

Sometimes,
outside the window
there’s a huge flock of seagulls is gathering, invading
your neighbor’s yard, and you find yourself flying with them in a blizzard,
grunting your chest as you fight for an unrecognizable scrap
and all of a sudden, you are aware of the grass
and the little things, the spider, the silence
dancing from the spangled dew, and in it
you find the language to say thank you,
thank you, thank you.

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