Where we are now, I have this theory
developed over all the dinners
we no longer have together,
and at night when I wake
to a brief forgetfulness,
or while waiting at the light in town,
my son in the driver’s seat,
both of us raising a brow
at the hyperactive man-child
on an unlit ATV in front of us,
bouncing restlessly to see
if the traffic will move
to match his bloodstream –
no chance, with a punctured
gas main two streets over –
that we’re so far apart,
we can no longer feel it,
the creeping numbness far worse
than the actual break, but then
a poet like Bob suggests peaceful
reciprocity, promising he’ll hold
both my briefcase and small
intestines, in exchange
for nothing more than a refusal
to do harm and I can’t even remember
when we gave up on the idea of safety
in numbers or enough of us choosing
to do the right thing, and I try
to let hope do its unruly thing
even as it slips through my hands.