crossing the street in ’51
from habit, my father clutched my hand.
embarrassed, my manly eight-year hand
freed the grasp to search my pocket
for some important thing.
I knew my search had fooled my dad.
from habit I clutched my son’s hand.
embarrassed, his manly eight-year hand
freed the grasp to search his pocket
for some important thing.
He knew his search had fooled his dad.
