Poetry

He is ten now. He does not remember teething
on my dog tags or holding my sweat-stained
patrol cap in the Fort Knox gym the night I came home.

Ask the scientist up to his knees drumming/
on concrete with his paddle,/
making wild river jazz.

I saw just one set of footsteps, which told me
I was being carried by the Lord, even though
             I was suffering, you know?