He’s a pretty good dancer
for a two-year-old.
We like to kick up our heels (his soft and new) and
boogie along (to) the Arc of Time.
It’s his favorite song. Correction:
It’s my favorite song.
But he doesn’t really have a choice now
does he?
’Cause I control the stereo,
and I am sick of songs that swim above
the rest of us, spouting morals like
Baby Beluga.
He has the brightest eyes.
That’s what people say when I show them pictures.
You should see them when they’re closed,
I think.
Tongue-tied and toddling.
Tufts of feathery hair blooming to the beat.
We cut the carpet in the living room.
Sunlight refracting through tiny fingerprint mazes,
frenzied lyrics spilling over
hysterical beats.
Again, he says.
So I skip backward one more time,
eyeing every sharp angle in the room.
This article appears in August 2007.
