day, I gather the fresh ingredients
upon the table, lemons, olive oil,
the farm’s green garlic, pour a goblet full
to sip while cooking. Ten to six, the rice
exhaling steam, when Miles enters, no, cracks
the room along its lathes, as Teo charges
the air with its whole new tempo founded
on finding, modal flights, jauntily saunt-
ering along a new aural axis
of bold and casual intricacy.
That’s when my son returns, his cleats clacking
on the hall’s Saltillo tiles like tap shoes.
Behind him, his sister, father, the whole
family hungry after school and practice.
But how whole with this one rushing to his
room, and this one texting, and this, checking
the fluctuations in market values,
and this, the one responsible for this
evening’s meal, a deserter, stricken
singular with longing to become song.