Fingers in Hair I run my fingers through my son’s tangled mop of brown hair as he lies next to me in bed. It’s 4:30 a.m. and we can’t fall asleep. He waves his hands in front of his eyes, making stimming motions, and I imagine his head slamming against the windshield, a spiderweb crack forming in the sheet of glass and blood pouring from an opening in his skull. I press my hand to his head to try to stop the bleeding, but the crimson liquid slips through my fingers and stains the carpet and fabric seat covers. I am reminded of a Gospel passage (Luke 12:7 NIV): “Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered.” I hold some of my son’s hairs in my hand and realize I cannot prevent a car accident, fall, gunshot wound, or disease from killing my son. I can’t prolong or preserve his life. I can only love him while he still lives. His hands whip in front of his face, and he prattles phrases only he understands. I bury my fingers deeper into the mound of his hair and whisper, “Come on now, sleepy time, Colin.” First published in The Truth I Must Invent (Poets Choice, 2023) Wonder About Life Do you ever wonder, what’s the point of all this madness, this mess of life— the waking and rushing and working and spending and stressing? For what? Why are we going through these motions? What objective do we aim to meet? Will we look back on our time and regret having succeeded but never savored, having accrued but never shared, having acquired but never loved, and having achieved but never lived? Stanwix Street A vanilla ice cream cone covered with sprinkles of dirt, a handful tossed by small, grimy hands across a chain-link fence. A blond child’s whine— flat, constant and eerily melodic. The girl then turning away, screaming upstairs to her mother, sound asleep in the mid-August heat, the lime-green curtains fluttering in the second-story window of the adjacent brick building. The child just standing there, scraping off the grit and licking the melting residue trickling down her forearm. First published in Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2019) Overdue First Kiss My first kiss did not come when I needed it most. In adolescence, when other boys were rounding the bases, I was left to wonder what it might be like one day, To actually kiss a girl on the lips, To get my first taste and notch my first conquest. And I realized early on, sophistication in the game Of sexual interaction would never be mine. But I waited and waited for my pitch, and then I legged out an infield hit. First published in Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2019) Stadium Nights Friday nights in central New York, crumpling leaves of bursting gold and breathing in the October cold as a pigskin spirals tight and shadows collide under stadium lights. Small town pride surges like an offensive line, bursting open a gaping hole, springing the halfback en route to the chalk-lined goal. And fathers perched in the stands holler until hoarse and reminisce about the glory days, when they wore the jerseys— bloodied and mud-caked— and walked with shoulders back, receiving cheers as Friday night gladiators. Under the bleachers, first-time kisses are punctuated with quivers and giggles in between swigs of peppermint schnapps. Holding hands means everything, and halftime comes far too quick. The curfew looms as the scoreboard clock winds down. Just five more minutes you say, then head home grudgingly. (First published in Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2019)