Henry’s Song

He knows Peter’s theme by heart 

and hums it to himself when 

he builds cardboard skyscrapers or 

weaves webs of yarn round doorknobs 

and kitchen drawer handles.

The melody of the strings 

summons plaid school satchels 

abandoned for tree climbing,

romping through bright fields

immune to the danger 

of plain old grey wolves or 

the colorful fairytale ones

thinly tucked into bonnets and aprons

lurking in doorways or 

tumbling down red brick fireplaces

blazing with flames.

Sitting side by side 

on the red damask sofa

he sucks his calloused thumb

and caresses his threadbare doggie

keeping time with the music,

listening beyond the crackle and burp, 

as the needle steers its way across 

the grooves in the ancient black vinyl

past the slinking of the clarinet cat

and the flute bird fluttering.

When the mellow brass of the French horns 

signal the presence 

of the skulking saw-toothed wolf

we see his shadowy paw prints

in the snowy woods,

and the thumb sucking slows

now more distraction 

than comfort.

Even though we know it’s just a trick

and that she is resting safely

in the hollow of the tree

we mourn Sonja swallowed whole

into the dark 

of the wolf’s belly.

And even though we know it’s a happy ending 

for Peter who traps that wolf with a rope 

wound round its bushy tail

when I tuck him into bed that night

into the darkness he asks

a simmering not so simple question—

but the wolf isn’t real,

right?