The Man Becoming

Or, my home is a box of treasures

The longboard keeping vigil by the front door

where just inside,

the jumbled pile of shoes…

and shirt tossed crumpled to lie alone

The upstairs joy in triumphant shouts, and downstairs sometimes rage

when…

like a blown fuse —

comes silence

and for days — a ghost, an empty room

until —

The “good mornings” and

“is there coffees” and

“hope you have a good days”

return with smiles

and all is healed and well

The brooding presence of a man becoming

has displaced the little boy who kept a box of treasures

These evidences are my treasures now and this home become their box

And one day

very soon…

oh so soon…

all too soon…

I’ll beg and plead and rend my clothes

for once more a pile of shoes

I see them now — the jewels

I’ll blink once, just once and —

they will be gone.