I discovered salt late in life
divine grit
I could season a ballpoint pen
and make do.
What else hovers
depriving me of its exquisiteness
words I don’t know yet
holding my thoughts hostage
the obvious hobby
the perfect eye cream.
My son smiles so big these days
he forces joy on others
even that sullen teenager
the corners of his mouth
giving him away
it makes me think
perhaps I should hunt first
for what I knew
and lost
like those Russian nesting dolls
surely the courage to be that giddy
with strangers
belonged to me once
tiny and asleep
inside me
an old unruly silliness
think of the wondrous collisions
I could have.