In high school, you were crowned
“Most Likely to Succeed,”
and I’ve been circled with guilt, imagining
our love as your descent into ordinary.
Tonight you bake, fogging the windows,
the evening a deep rose. Dressed in sweat
pants floured with handprints, you bounce
our son on your knee, shower him
with cinnamon, pop songs from our senior prom.
The music, mixer, our babbling boy
end any chance for words.
Nothing much happens.
I kiss your flushed cheek, begin to sing.
The spiral rolls rise.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry - all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in River Mouth Review, Whale Road Review, Dwelling Literary and Ekstasis Magazine.