I am sweeping under my son.
Are you made of crumbs? I ask him,
being a wise guy

No I’m made of dust, he says 
and that shuts me right up –
for a minute I think of the stars

And what will it be like,
I ask myself,
to raise a poet?

And then his sibling, correcting, 
says, You’re made of dirt
and dandruff

And I, correcting, ask myself
what will it be like to raise a poet 
and a comedian?