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I see the boy first.
He scampers in the
lot behind the taco stand
like an unguided skiff,
buffeting the halcyon asphalt sea.
His blond tresses are the sails,
neck the mizzenmast,
arms outstretched the stanchions.
The faded superhero tee comprises
the figurehead zooming
in unhampered journey.

He jibes as Father
Dances behind him, spinning too
with arms out. And I realize
I’m not witnessing sailing.
Father and son are flying.

They twist and dive
around cloud cars for
in this moment they are
high above the city. Not here.
Their lips flap and noise the
PSHB-PSHB-PSHB-PSHB
of imagined propellers.
Laughing and talking her
flyboys to a smooth
landing in the minivan,
Mother watches clapping,
for this flight was brilliant.
Showing me in my daily haste
I have forgotten to fly.