In this one you sit crossed-legged,
facing me, holding a pair of drum sticks.
The honey glaze on the wood
draws light from a bay window.
We sit, just the two of us, each playing
some song now forgotten in our walk-up overlooking the bay.
You are still in diapers and your full round cheeks,
tummy, sweet baby fat, squinting eyes,
they mimic mine, honor me playfully—
we both smile.
How will I ever explain why I left? How will I, years from now,
plead my case? I glued the photograph, collage style,
onto a gathering of others—poster sized—hung it
in the living room from its own silver cord.