If not an # undershirt from the washer
or the sleeve # I let land on my # face,
my own son would # smother # me
with a mulberry-stained # foot
to the mouth. Fitting. # I am tired of #
breathing this # season # ripe with ragweed,
when nothing reminds # me # I am # here
more than the # wheeze of lungs
clawing # frantic at their cage.
But not yet # tired # enough to stop
on my own. # Burying me # alive
in training pants and # rags is my son’s
# gift of sorts, he who thinks I can
survive so much # more than I can.
Not so for the dash # cam I mailed
# my old man for # Father’s Day
without a card. # Nothing
to say # really. He and #
I are # learning to speak in #
silence for the # day it may come
in handy. He’ll mount the # camera
where it can # prove his # innocence.
I’ll # pray to never # see the footage,
though I am preparing to # play
his # smile in slow # motion
in my mind. By now, the ribbon is #
off, battery # charged and # ready
for # shooting. # My son is next
to learn # the secret: #
a father is only immortal # once,
a pair of # superman underwear
on his head, a # belt thrown around
# his throat.
