I drive us through the drive-thru
& you misaim the fries to your mouth;
flimsy, undercooked strands dropping
on your lap, in the crack beside the door—
that impossible place to reach. Not like
how you once straddled my shoulders &
I held your knees as you stretched
to grab hold of the dogwood branch
for a closer look at fledglings, begging,
as you did then, too, for fast food.
You tell me you’re fine. But you look like
the blue jay in the refuge I extended twigs to.
Through a chain-link fence, offerings added
to its harbored nest while it waits to heal.
And while you sleep, I sweep the car seat, the mat,
toss uneaten fries outside where another bird flies,
claims one & flits back to the forsythia bush
below your window, a stubbled spray of pale buds.
- On Seeing You, My Son, Overmedicated for the First Time - August 24, 2021