Staring over the asphalt roof of the Kmart
past the rise of McDonald’s roof
and the sunset sign of Taco John,
looking past the circling gulls
and the fir trees and birch that line
the lake, away and north
I feel a hunger for him like pain.
For his length not two feet and
the wingspread of his arms outstretched
and wrapping around my neck and for
the call and response of mom
in my ear and his name on my tongue,
a happy red ball tossed between us.
physical but not sex
love but not love as I know it,
love forced by fire into sweetness.
I want to mirror everything
he sees, how he sees it:
balloons, the letter D, chocolate milk,
the fat cat, the heaviness of sleep,
his red car — a kind of singing,
singing as he does,
happy happy to you.