the box on the shelf
with the black-penned Possibility
has a lid that won’t close
yesterday’s thinkings
and tomorrow’s

and never lie flat.

in it is the house i’d build
and fill with his favourite things.

he’d laugh,
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.