Poem
Standup
for Cesarito
He calls for me
as I head for the stairs.
"Trabafo no, Papi. Fugar."
A careful smile on his face,
hoping the stairs won't win again.
His time under my roof
compressed to one day:
at two we've spent
144 minutes.
I sit with him. He hands me
the yellow car.
He drives the green —
they fly down the slide.
In five minutes I am at my desk.
Through two doors and headphones I hear his cries:
"Papi, vem. Trabafo no.
Papi vem, Papi vem"
I log in to standup.
Fifteen minutes. Nothing of note.
I should have brought the yellow car.