I keep losing him
the little boy
happy as a worm
poking a stick
in the warm December sand.
He's me and I'm him
but it's hard to leave behind
this room where I am
snowed in, biting my nails,
where my wife is hunched
over her computer.
Same hands, same
skin, same eyes.
What inheritance was his
that now is mine?
Grandma under blankets
on the back porch, listening
to Texas vs. Nebraska on the radio.
Grandpa splitting wood
with an axe, which, every time
he hoists it overhead
threatens to send him
toppling over onto his back.
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