FOR CRAIG

My son reclines on the sofa
 eyes closed
arms crossed on his chest
                                 
his face pale and unlined
like the infant brought home
in a woolen bundle twenty years earlier

Only the shadowy stubble
outlining his lips and chin
provide a clue to his age

Only the wiggle of his toes
inside dingy white socks
hint at whatever dream
cartwheels past his slumbering mind

He is every bit the man now
yet forever locked in his father’s recollection
as a rambling two year old permanently frozen
 by a parent’s paralytic hold
on yesterday’s powdered  innocence