Poem Of The Week: 8/18/2005

	The Clock Strikes 96

Today crosses the border into four.
In her ten months, I've never been away
longer than a couple nights, and today
I miss her but can't sit here keeping score
of who, what and how much I can adore
when my milk-tongued, unweaned, strong-boned offspring
has been away from Sarah possibly
three hours (but I doubt it's a minute more);
Sophia, I haven't changed all that much,
I still think most babies look like old men--
but I sit in a Runza eating lunch
and hear your laugh (though I know it's crazy),
stand up and turn to see your smile again
in a stranger's arms, a stranger's baby.
 

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