Late Twentieth Century Suburban Childhood Unsonnet

a thumbless man recites stopping by woods
on a snowy evening he calls himself cousin
my own children are there breaking all the toys
in the atoms of my fingertips it’s strange
to think the ones you father forth
have often fathered you but that has nothing
to do with how strange it is to be little
conjure the wardrobes and willow trees inside
a feeling and you find yourself a dust mote
circumnavigating a shaft of light in a yellow room
with birds chirping is it day is it day
outside your window where there’s always
a funeral home and train tracks and a creek
running through the synapses and a wagon
a poor old pitiful rusty red wagon carrying
your dreams and questions and tonka trucks
into the future where you are holding
this perfect little being that emerged
from the meeting of sperm and egg it is day it is day
and became what you are now saying to the wind

-Dante Di Stefano