Sunday Poem

In Plain Sight

When my son closes his eyes
and cups his hands over them,
he thinks he's hiding from me.

It doesn't work that way, I say.
You can't see me, but I can
still see you. He repeats

his Morse Code of peeking
and closing his eyes
a few more times in a mix

of shyness and regret.
I finally get it out
he didn't want me home yet,

he had five more math problems,
and hoped to be finished
before I walked in with the world.

I'm glad it's only math, I say.
Here, maybe this will help,
and cover my eyes,

announce I'm not home,
wishing I were seven again,
living in plain sight.

wanting to promise him
a simple plan, to show
how to live with all illusions intact,

living inside my dreams,
instead of dying inside my life.

by Jim Gwyn
from The Red Wheelbarrow 6