Drill

                        I have two families,

                        one of children,
                        one of cats.

                        We eat basil bread

                        together.

                        Some I see

                        quite often, others

                        scatter for days across

                        their sea of work and trees,

                        of papers, of books,

                        of highways, missing.

                        Cats have their

                        Buddhism and

                        practice it daily--

                        on my carpet

                        with their toys and 

                        hidden pee.

                        They sleep
                        immodestly

                        and scratch

                        at the most

                        apparent times.

                        But children

                        don’t return

                        as often as they

                        could in favor of

                        their own becoming.

                        This is ordinary.

                        This is real.

                        I don’t remember their

                        faith or favored kinds

                        of shoes, their preferred

                        flowers or their songs,

                        only the thoughts they 

                        leave behind.

                        I am still here,

                        a kestrel on the wind,

                        a father with wine,

                        a father humming old

                        window songs, a lone father

                        waiting with cats, with

                        melting lit candles 

                        and basil bread warming

                        in these little heats of time.