He runs red-faced stumbling up the stairs
plants himself solidly next to my chair and pauses 
to catch his breath, observe the scene—
desk, lamp, bills, even at seven
he understands that the universe
whether sun, moon, planets

or the lines on his father’s face
must be configured in certain ways
to negotiate a cookie 
a half-hour before dinner.

To say, sure,
reach deep into that jar of cold formed earth
and retrieve your prize
hold it high like a general’s flag
behold its dark chips as the possibility
of pleasure and victory
over immovable forces.

or

No! Dinner! Remember the dinner!
where battles have been waged and lost
Brussels sprouts, broccoli
good soldiers of the good earth
left pierced, broken, rotting in the field.

I feel him studying me.
No, not me,
this universe parallel to his.
The sweepstakes entry form
lies at the corner of the desk
(who knows, if the stars 
are aligned just right).
I crush it in my hand.
Get two, I say,
one for me 
and one for you.

This poem first appeared in Families in Society.
Used here with the author’s permission.