The Drop-Off
Dark October morning, the shush and blur
of red brake lights beyond our wipers
as we pull into the drop-off lane. Kids tumble
out of lined-up cars and vans like paratroopers
huffing backpacks, lunch bags and instrument
cases, under umbrellas, silhouetted in headlights,
marching into school. Every day I say it twice —
I love you, have a good day, I love you —
before you disappear, entering the stream
of bodies flowing into the lobby and halls.
You don't know this: how most days I stall,
blocking traffic, stealing a moment to memorize
the bright facts of your hair, the side of your faces,
to study your walk, caressing your backs
and shoulders with my invisible hand.
Or that I blow you a kiss — a wobbling globe,
its glassy sheen I dream impenetrable — floating
toward you — to surround and guide you,
my love’s great armor to guard you. This is
the same kiss blown by all of history’s moms
and dads — look at us in those grainy pictures —
huddled on the docks, waving the small flags
of our handkerchiefs at some tiny ship
on the horizon, or watching from our porches
the passing troops, wishing you weren’t
in their number, praying you’ll never see it
face to face: the angry red slash, the fresh
eraser, the open mouth of the zero.
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