The Kid

There's a photo of me

at nine or ten.

Bowl cut. Big ears.

A list of wants

as long as his arm.

I know that list.

I wrote it.

And here's the twist

nobody warned me about:

I got it.

Most of it.

The place. The work.

The shoes he circled.

And every arrival

felt like a lobby.

Another desk.

Another list—

The kid would lose his mind.

The kid would be so proud.

That's the worst part.

That's the worst part.

It all came true —

I felt it for a week.

The kid would be proud.

(and I felt it for a week)

So now I know

the thing they don't print:

there's no amount.

There was never an amount.

The wanting doesn't end.

It just changes shirts.

So here's the new deal

I cut with the kid:

we're allowed to want.

Wanting's the engine.

We just don't get to believe

that the next one

fixes us.

We know better.

We want anyway.

Lighter now.

The kid would lose his mind!

The kid would be so proud!

It all came true —

I felt it for a week —

and the week was real!

The week was real!

(the kid would be proud)

I framed the photo.

He's on the desk now.

Bowl cut. Big ears.

We split the list.