With The Drop Of A Cup

Location

68516
United States
40° 44' 31.974" N, 96° 38' 51.9972" W

Zoe can’t help chasing Daddy.

Days commence, shooting starting pistol,

thundering out of door frames, snapping seat-belts,

braids bowed by sticky thumb-nails.

Daddy two-steps ahead, two-words before

Zoe can say “Goo’moaning,”

he’s packing saddle-bags, cuts a whole-wheat crust,

then bang-flashes, gone, behind pillar smoke

reappearing seated, buckled,

a lovely volunteer seated, buckled, two-feet behind him.

-

At the gymnasium, the pursuit begins anew,

as Daddy rips Zoe from shackles,

plopping pink-velcro’s, floating into MEN’s room;

hanging in leotard straps, hands fly to catch

ear-wrinkles, whiskers, milky whites,

Rats! Tiny hands, crippled by youth,

he should be ours by now.

Hanging-carrot, now half-reflection,

dangling defiance to summersaulting Zoe.

-

Each abrupt halt of the thin hand,

a slow gravity’s pull further towards

door-frames and seat-belts,

‘til trap doors drop the pair,

swirling to a window seat

at St. Paul’s Crowded Espresso Cafe,

where we order, eyes forward, signs read

Permit Not To Speak

Across Fellow Morning Drinker.

-

Not a finish line, Daddy’s tire change,

throwing to Zoe meteoric fragments

of cran-apple biscotti stone.

Sweeping off the cereal dust,

to the door-frame he flees again,

but Zoe raises above wet nostrils,

a paper cup, filled to the brim,

“Daddy, is this trash?”

-

Zoe drops a pair of burning palms,

coffee puddled under tears.

Daddy comes with tree trunk arms,

lifting high his champion sprinter.

No medals awarded,

tho’ she has won again;

tripped again by the snare

of weeping toddler’s glance.

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741