right hand pointing

B o r r o w e d   G l o v e s

From a window,

I watch my wife’s son struggle with his car.

An early working day,

he drops the car hood softly,

keeps the cursing low.

I see him set a text,

click his lighter to the joint outdoor labor allows.

My coffee steams the pane.

I barefoot to the kitchen

to fill a travel mug

with Kenya roast and a hit of Hennessy.

I walk it to him waiting at the curb.

Dew laces the lawn.

We stand silent, savoring the moon.