The Downbeat of Leaves

I used to fly

on a hammock's exhale

when my soundtrack

was soft

as a frozen custard swirl

and I was happy as the laundry-line shirts

that danced with their partner

the wind.

I used to sing

in the aisles of the A&P

with butterfly merriment,

on my bathtub stage

with its mad blizzard of bubbles

and echo,

to the rhythm

of my invincible sneakers,

whose drum skin was

simmering concrete littered with

the downbeat of leaves.

I used to love

as often as the Good Humor man

appeared in summer:

the girls with their flirty skirts

and prancing pony tales,

the pretty TV lady whose sermon was,

Hostess cupcakes mean everything,

and my mom

on those days when she misted herself

with an atomizer of magic

and smiled,

crease-free and pretty as a picture,

like her job was to greet

my returning-hero daddy

from the right-on-time

six-o’clock train.

Now,

in these spun-out years

my job

of way too many mornings

is to head for the docks

to send off

my next dearly departing passenger

who waves goodbye to me

from the breezy deck

of shuffleboard and sorrow.

And I will do what I always do…

pretend that I am brave

and full of hope,

and wave back.