Woolen Hat

On Tuesdays I pick up Max at preschool
and bring him back to my house
and give him a snack and he plays
with his trains in the basement
and then we go to yoga for 4-year-olds
and then I bring him back here
and fix him dinner—can I just
eat something that’s already cooked?—
and I clean up after dinner and give him
his bath, with bubbles, and brush his teeth
and read him 3 train books and take him
back to the bathroom for a last pee
and rub his back and sing
This Land Is Your Land 
till he settles down and sleeps
and then he calls me at 1 because
he can’t find Lambie, she must have
fallen out of bed, and he calls me at 5—
is it wake-up time?—and at 6
we pad to the kitchen together
for breakfast—I like my muffin
frozen—and I make his snack for school
and I make his lunch for school
and I get him dressed—I always wear my pj’s
under my clothes—and out the door
and into his carseat and back to school
and at the good-bye door
I give him five hugs and a big kiss
and drive straight to Dunkin’ Donuts
for a large coffee. At home, settled
with the newspaper, I see his woolen cap,
left behind, white with blue stripes.
He might need that hat.
Though the day’s gotten warmer,
and he hates hats, they’re itchy,
it’s possible, isn’t it,
he might need that hat?
That he might need me
to take the hat to him?