I try to put a lid
on happiness. Someone
said Don’t bank on this
period of sobriety.
Yesterday, you put a good
tire on your daughter’s car
for her to get to
work three hours away.
You notice three
missing lug nuts, and she
follows you to Auto Zone.
The groceries I’d bought
on ice in the trunk. We shopped
so she’d have food because
I could and you
take her
shoe shopping
for work shoes
as a way to be with her.
At goodbyes in the 103 degree
parking lot, you waved to me
two fingers to your lips
a sharp look in your eye
a thank you, and I love you, and
for all this I knock on wood.
Might as well be building a porch
around the structure of our
family, where we all hang
out, me with a cane for tap, tap, tapping,
the babies in swimsuits, and hope
tunneling through the whole mess
like an army of angels.