And my hope is that he’ll be able to sit                  with himself to make what he might, what he will or what he won't.                  So we’ve taken up our carpets exposing the hardwood surfaces, living                  now, we know what not to be.

Today his homework said: If you went                  to the moon, what would you take? As if a rocket was fueled and standing by.                  He wrote and drew: Mom and Dad. Fitted with space suits. It seems he’ll never                  have to put himself on trial, in

An office, before the altar of thirty years,                  making a list, with the fury of a two headed coin working on a scratch ticket, as                  the shavings reveal a host of reasons for him to continue to live. And there’s been                  resolution, yet I hide myself in fiction

And inhale the snake who once ate my own                  tale. When I’m struck from the story my contribution won’t reside in a motto or                  a crest, nor in an envelope’s contents, but will remain silent and sealed in a promise                  never asked for, but fulfilled.