Writing Exercises on a Sunday Morning

She's loosely attuned to "Air Force One"
over the shoulder of our son,
giggling as he holds tightly
to crossed leg and bouncing knee.
She's unaware we disagree.

What we did has become what we do.

Held hands across bucket seats,
a Burgundy Bonneville parked once
on a dusty road by a Crooked Lake
and once at the drive in. Made plans
for long movie nights in. Passed through
open house by popping in a DVD. Survived
without in the lounge by the smoking oven
watching football, in arms, relaxing.

Sighing, grinning, turning again
to a collection of poems, stapled and
waiting for my scolding pen.

Ease everyday, he knows what the silver button
does and why you clutch the toy with
the red, green, and yellow things to push
and watch the colors change.

In the next half hour, if he grows in
knowledge will he grow in stupor?
The stain is reaching within my oneness
and I no longer wish for separation.

Old patterns die, please, smile and laugh
and be buried.
And to the new and simple: rise.