catching up the baby books

But my daughter threw up

tomato soup on celery-green shag

the tile-and-floor man

finally showed up

before I could dress

or poke holes in my hair

for my eyes

and nobody kissed me

the whole damn day

for Steve away at Wichita State

like your grandfather

who spent my childhood on planes

you soar with aerodynamic longings

hoping to fuel planes for spring break

to jump from them this summer

taking pictures of your feet

catapulting in fast-forward

toward sun-baked Kansas soil

I crane my neck imagining 

the blinding glint of your descent

raise my hand to the sun

as you drift across my lifeline

your camera lens dead center

on my free-falling heart

the best moments come unbidden

on the deck at night

uncontainable laughter

and its welcome tears

causing the stars

to whirl dizzily and shatter

our world reflected

in a cracked lens

kaliedoscope dissection

each fragment a compliment

of inevitable surprises

fireflies rain down

on our dazzled faces

My daughters read horoscopes

like scriptures

the eldest peering over

the top edge of the newspaper

to look eagerly about

for dark strangers

with whom to have

my grandchildren.

My second, the pragmatist,

lifts rug corners and chair cushions

seeking coins and other treasures

misplaced by visitors

who pretend to be less than rich.

I would chide them openly

deny this frivolous charting

of each day's journey

if I could be sure

what to offer in return.

I could say,

"Do not make love every time your teeth itch--

try going to the bathroom first

and thinking of the least 

popular diseases

or stretch marks,"

but when hormonal sirens

began to wail

it is the parents who fold themselves

beneath the nearest desk

arms thrown across their heads

while they await sudden silence

of an all clear

or the concentric blows

of an explosion.

I could say,

"Avoid today anyone 

who makes you  want to lie,"

but in their fierce need for approval

children learn early to shuffle what is true

with what only wants to be so,

playing for a while with a too-full deck.

I could say,

"End each day with a hopeful song,

full of dream words like tendrils

and camisoles, heartbeats

and long embraces,"

but some nights fathers rage

or disappear,

grandmothers pass away, 

and some special someone

decides to love someone else

forever again.

Who can read music

against the ink black

of a starless sky?

If there is hope for them

perhaps it is this--

perhaps I could say,

"Be sure to make the kinds

of mistakes that will

prepare you well

for second marriages."