Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Prospects

 
With reading glasses tipped
between the page before me
and the prospects beyond,

my eyes flicker to passing
cars in the school’s lot of rampant
and distracted energy.

The sun sets on their release
from debate teams and football
and orchestral dream-duties.

And I wait for the spindly legs
of my teen daughter, bold in step,
ripping the sidewalk beneath.

Ten minutes, twenty, the sun fat
on the blue roof, the red brick weakening
to pink--an old energy stirs in me.

It must peak in my eyes just then,
as the boys drift by in their lazy Buick
arms out the window, heads to the breeze.

Because over glasses my blurry eyes
find startled focus, as his eyes lock-click
on mine, trapped in what’s lost,

his grin dangling like a glittering key.

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