A soft crying, distant,
from the bedroom where
I lay him down, after we’d
exchanged funny faces, grins
and giggles, goofy sounds
to make us laugh, and he fell
asleep on my shoulder,
he who doesn’t really know
who I am, doesn’t know about
the DNA we share in our genes,
he whose only memory of me may
be gazing out a winter window,
looking
starward for the second star to the
right,
and straight on to morning, knowing
there’s someone there, watching
him.
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