so, at the outpost of
my sixth decade
I’ve been working at
coming to terms;
it seems I’ve been
reading quite a bit
about death;

like Chicago winter blasts
that rush past
before I can slam
the front door shut,
most of this existence has
already whooshed past me
and it surprises me to discover
what stays, what lasts, what gives
crowning meaning,
what keeps me company:

etched remembrances
of my two sons—
two small creatures covered
with the smell of boys
in 100-percent cotton, tightly woven
fruit-loop colored, matching
pajama tops and bottoms;
shaggy heads, happy to be bare
feet, little nimble hands
poking out of ribbed ankles and wrists,
and round neck bands of
blueberry, cherry, lime, lemon;
the way the handed down sets,
migrating from brother to brother,
had already begun
to come apart
at the seams