You impish, blonde-headed,
bowl-cut wearing four-year-old
with blue eyes big as Neptune.

You baby boy who’d chase
his sisters around the kitchen
table, bump into them, knock
into your waiting food, run off
without noticing you spilt
spaghetti on the floor.

While you scurried to other
rooms, your mama scraped
sauce from the linoleum,
shoveled noodles back into
a warped Tupperware bowl,
scooted her untouched plate next
to your favorite chipped mug,
placed the container of tossed
pasta in front of her and called
y’all to supper before it got cold.