He's making low moaning sounds,
scraping at his chest with curled fingers.
I loosen his tie and unbutton his damp
collar where his throat is convulsing.
I'm listening in the vacuum. Waiting
for the sirens while he slides his bare feet
back and forth on the vinyl cushion.
He's breathing and I'm laughing. And he's
laughing between gasps as we go faster
across asphalt. He's running
and I'm peddling my two-wheeler
with no training wheels.
He's pushing. Or I think he's pushing.
I look over my shoulder, and he's standing
back by the tether ball courts. He's getting
smaller and he's laughing.
Laughing because I didn't even know when
his hand let go of my seat.
Stanford T. Goto