Young Dog
Gasoline breezes carry the night
upriver. On the beach beneath the bridge
running inland, we sit on a tire with
our first child inside you.

We come again to find what made us 
happy one day in our vague past. 
The tide vomits debris. The sun 
slides into marshes.

Three beers and I am drunk. 
Still we love. I will not count 
the reasons against it.

More beers. We do not
talk. The ambivalent sunset 
expands. Another day gone
and no work finds me. Darkness 
leads us home.

The proper houses that see me stagger
disapprove like parents
which is why we are in this city
waiting on our son
coming to your need
and my neglect.