I wonder what a cherry pie tastes like
when baked by you on a Sunday.
You follow your mother’s recipe
and drop in just a little bit of heart,
laughing and blowing flour around
the marble countertop. I ask you
if you know where to get a good drink,
strong and still fruity, you say
you make the best margaritas.
I watch you work under the sink, under
the car, working with hands from
your father. My hands are my mother’s.
They never taught me how to be a man,
but I am more than enough for you.
I know nothing about those things.
When it comes to things like this, I know
about as much as our dog does.
He and I look at you with the same
happy, dopey eyes, thankful and wondering
and still happy to be here.
