I’m Pretty Much an Expert at Showers, Except When I Fell and Got Three Stitches
Eight years old today and back home,
a day of whims. No whimpers
as he showers, he even submerges
his head without a word.
The steam mingles, harmonic
vibrations of water and song, he trills
on and on about birthday creations.
Wound in bungee cords, a shell
of empty cardboard, let a roar
out as a dinosaur. At the party,
buddies plumbed the yard
for buried pearls. No matter where he looked,
he found them. Every occasion
is a prompt, each shipping box a prop,
even the shower a possibility
to be minnow or shark. Now, wrapping him in a towel,
I tousle his short hair. He asks me to
sweep it to spikes. He likes my steady hand
drying his back, chattering about
what baffles. He paints the mirror,
imagining new worlds in these vapors.
He’s grown a year, but I'm still patting down
frizzy strands, smoothing out
things you can’t see.