Poem with a First Line Stolen From My Toddler

Cars don’t have hands.

The pharmacy doesn’t have hot dogs, no.

Mommy doesn’t have trouble with bath time.

The house doesn’t have anything to say.

I don’t have a Thomas but I have a Percy.

Noodles don’t have to be eaten, I guess.

The cat doesn’t have patience.

We don’t have anything to do.

 

 

Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred Diapers

No, I don’t know

if scrambled eggs are ticklish,

please stop kicking me.

 

 

Parking Lot Pilgrim

I think a teacher once told me about Anne Dilliard

writing Pilgrim at Tinker Creek on notecards, then laying

the notecards on her driveway to organize the book,

fighting the wind. At least I think so. The memory

runs away from me as my toddler runs away from me

across the street to cover the parking lot with footprints

like notecards. His uneven steps are writing a book

about the bike rack, the Hole, the Stairs, the Garden,

the Pond with the Frogs who disappear the minute

he comes stomping near, all crash and half stumble.

There’s nowhere else to go. I wish I could

Dillard all this, uncover wonders with an elastic mind,

but today my mind wants to snap like the tired ear

of a paper mask. I’m afraid these frogs are nothing

but splashes. The parking lot is just a parking lot.