Oh do I remember

that wide-eyed boy,
wrapped in blue clouds
at the breakfast table
drunk on sun and
cheerios,
siphoning Saturday
morning like
french kissing honeysuckle.

It was back in those days,
of new friends and
spelling quizzes when
mom and sis would
work at the hospital on
weekends, leaving dad and
me to tend the house, or
more often, the house to tend
dad and me,
that the world would open its
doors. And that’s all they were — 
not some grandiose truth or
eternal bliss, just
doors, mouseholes even.

They lead to
blackberry bushes,
candy stores, a piggy
back ride around the
cul de sac, and they
came and went
as morning dew
lining the stem of
childhood, oh

do I remember.