What happened at the front gate?

1:30 pm, I am at the front gate
sitting on the iron two seater
listening to my son cry for 'out' -
out of the stroller
out the straps that contain his form
of the wheels that brought him here.
He wants to explore -
walk the road
pick up rocks
examine the mail.

He knows not that there
is danger on the road -
fast cars, fire ants piled on the edge.
But more, he knows not that I am tired
I want to, no need to, sit here
quietly on this solid bench
away from the house
from the familiar asking of his siblings
from the sound of Schoolhouse Rock
multiplication songs,
songs, I know now by heart

He persists
he is his own energy force
and I am weak to his red round lips
his blond layers, his little boy blue.

A simple click of the red button
and he is free!

I rise and follow,

My camera now full of life.

I am breaking all the poetry rules by doing something so literal, but you know poetry of the ordinary is worth the rebellion ;)


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