We Stand at the Stop

The first day of school has come; I must force

my son out. I'm not ready with a printed message

to pin on him as his shoes start to track maps

I have not traced. Boarding the big yellow bus,

Eric twists to me from the landing and I reach

out to touch his shoulder. Waving him out

of sight, I cup my stomach in both hands, bow

my head and let my son go. Knowing how wild

horses can be broken, I ask that he remember

the soles of his bare feet running through Kentucky

bluegrass blooming over the hills in Hardin County.

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