When I get home he pounces, eyes alight,
arms wide, teeth bared in a young tiger's smile;
we roll through grass and leaves, a tumbling pile
till my fatigue and tickles end the fight.
Right now he bounds out of bed set to play--
"No time for coffee, Dad, let's go outside!"
I protest, half asleep, too tired and fried,
but that stubborn boy drags me toward the day.
One day he won't come to my room at dawn
to wake me. Soon I'll breakfast on my own.
When I get home from work, I'll trudge alone
unmolested through the leaf-littered lawn.
I don't know how I'll make it past that day.
Till then--the sun's out. C'mon, Son: let's play.
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