Thanksgiving

I’m watching my small son sleep.
We share my bed because
Grandpa is visiting.
Ben lies on his side,
one arm bent beneath him,
one outstretched.
In that upside down
open hand
lies Lightening McQueen.

His knees drawn up,
ear touching shoulder.
I read some poems,
Kooser’s postcards,
and wonder at the breaking
of my heart.

A small brontosaurus
embroidered above
a green word
“Roar,”
Ben’s light blue pajamas
tucked under the lilac flannel sheet.

If it is still warm tomorrow,
I must plant bulbs.

Ben stirs, letting
McQueen fly
and rubs an eye;

moving his arm up,
he covers his eyes
from the intruding light
of my reading lamp.