A pre-dawn interstate. A thermos of coffee.
Next to me, the boy spiraled into himself asleep.
He went to bed in his uniform to be ready
for the tournament, and I simply prodded him
from bed to van after carrying out his bag and cleats.
When he wakes, he'll groggily eat the breakfast
his mother made at midnight before going to bed.
She also is asleep, at home, farther and farther away.
When she wakes, she will prepare breakfast
for our other child. Neither will think to say thanks
this morning. Perhaps they never will. Or maybe,
as with me now, it will occur to them years later
after they too have stumbled through a dark house
trying to gather together what their children need.


This poem first appeared in The Hong Kong Review.
Used here with permission.