Your Toys
I had my favorites but father
time or what passes for,
whisked them off stage by the end
of the opening act. Fat maple
pegs and mommy’s mixing bowls
gave way to bags of injection
molded plastic soldiers sighting rifles
thin as grass blades, duty bound
to do the bidding of a fumbling god.
The best of them draw and hold
the attention of the bossy matryoshka
humming in our head, soaking
up every jot and tittle, conducting
symphonies of reach and grasp,
weaving stories out of whole cloth
to explain what can’t be explained.
Out of necessity Abraham Lincoln
whittled his own out of hickory.
Human skulls and scorpion fights
kept Alexander occupied waiting
on greatness to arrive.
Heaven for me is watching you light
on one after another, pollenating
the world one grain at a time, the man
you’ll become a dot on the far horizon
homing in on my outstretched hand.
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