Zero Degrees of Certainty

empty swing syndrome

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.

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