The Poem of a Three-Year-Old With His Older Self

Let me not be in Sunday mornings—
quiet and still, sad, alone
gray morning through tangled blinds (cold and sharp and grainy)
invisible barrier blocking nose and can’t feel it with fingers
desperation inhales and wrinkled dryness
Turquoise room and turquoise shirts laid out for church
The Pounding-Piercing-Shrill-Beating-Loud-Swirling chaos
Like a vacuum cleaner
Sucking, ripping out of bed.
“I’ll pull you out. Suck you up.”
And three-year-old little person below facing the shrill, swirling bedroom air all alone.
Hold on, weak—in fear—powerless
Don’t get sucked away
Sharp piercing
Grab the doorknob
Hold on Grasp
Turn on the light.
Turn on the light.

But let the world this morning be a Grandpa day
A day that Grandpa would be here.
Calm and white, sun shining off chlorine rippling-electric-reflection pool
Through revealing blinds
Welcoming gray, soft living room,
Presence of Daddy walk by my window.
’Cause life can be beautiful
Life can have joy
And not through innocence because of the sucking swirling bedroom
But because of love.