“Whatever you have lost, there are more of. Just not yours.”
—Elizabeth McCracken

Each day the sky is so mercilessly blue
that I have to borrow your gumption just
to get up and live. Everywhere we walk
there they are—small boys in short pants
that expose their dumpling knees, hoisted
on their fathers’ shoulders or burrowing,
flushed and sleepy, into their mothers’ chests.
I cannot help my avid stare, trailing
little guys on trikes and in grocery carts.
Their chirping voices leave us stricken.

By reaching for you I keep myself
from touching the milkweed floss
of their hair, from sniffing their necks
for the scent of sunscreen and sweat.
We torture ourselves in a toy store
stirring through bins of Lego bricks,
the pieces chattering under our hands.
One boy opens his doughy fist, offers
you his pirate guy. Together you find
a sword but not the tiny treasure map.

People don’t see the boy-shaped space
between us. But I keep dreaming
he wears dragon pajamas and runs
ahead of us in flashing shoes, looking
back to be sure we will follow him.