WHAT’S LEFT GOES TO WORK

by Mike Soares


Bed-fuzzy
Imp’s grin
“Bye, Dad”
              kind eyes like his mom’s
Wise with amusement –
              Daddy’s and his private morning joke.
Secret shared from the top of the bunk.

Standing next to him I kiss his head
Chlorine clinging still from yesterday’s swim.
“Be a good boy today, Alexander.”

“Call me French Fry” he smiles –
              what his mom and I called his size in the womb.

And I say “Bye, French Fry. See you when I get home.”

Quietly out the front door
              my briefcase lifted to the car –
I glance back and up to his window.
From top bunk perch and through smudged pane he smiles down
Secret morning denouement.

Bye, French Fry.

He waves and most of me remains.

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