Flies land on raw hamburger meat,
my daughter sees before I can wave them away
says her appetite’s ruined, the heat
I explain will kill any germs, it’s too late,
her mind has hardened. 

Grey tower of grill smoke 
a message to the neighborhood 
I’m lazy about the little things.
Garden hose left out in a looping line. 
A pile of trimmed branches 
from the hedge between houses
sits in the drive, a mound the dog walks up to,
pees on.

I’ve forgotten to start steaming
the asparagus and the burgers are done,
we’ll be eating in stages, one course
at a time. Daughter wants cereal,
will I go to the store and get some?

You’ve got to be kidding.

Oh, but, just look at that face,
how it mimics in certain light
the one that surprises me most,
and the one I love best.

The father-daughter dance begins:
how much damage by giving in?