the box on the shelf
with the black-penned Possibility
has a lid that won’t close
and never lie flat.
in it is the house i’d build
and fill with his favourite things.
for he hasn’t seen the butter-flour apron
beneath the ink of my liberal jeans,
but there I’ll be;
a smile in his kitchen
and one for when he’d wake,
between my work with words
and the song of sunrise
sweeping outside the front door.