The days are long and the years are short:
the way he refers to how he was as a baby
at three, plainly understanding
our old dog not coming back and dad
always getting on a plane.
My eyes calculate the millimeter increases
in his legs in the stints I’m gone
and photos and Facetime in the meantime
pair hurt with happy
and spiral the whist.
How can I have the past and the future
and still tie a brick to the messy blonde head
of the present? I break jammed bread
over our bacon breakfasts
and I pray before
our games of catch. I almost cry
but have to stay focused on the pitch
because I know in five years
(ten fatherhood days?)
this rush of tableaus will be
a whole season of sun glare
as a father’s son
rears back to deliver the best black eye.