As the rays of a new sun light the new day,
Coleman lifts his arms to stretch.
He makes his bed with gusto,
leaves his bear and pajamas under the sheets
Coleman is eight.
Coleman works on words.
He hears of battles in Grenada,
Wonders of helicopters and rocket launchers.
He explains Grenada to his friend;
“the place where they throw bombs and grenades.”
Coleman asked me if Menlo died today.
“Yes,” I said, “Our Great Old Pyrenees is gone.
It was time, his body was gone
and his spirit ready to Fly.”
“Don’t tell me again, I’ve already had my cry.”
Coleman is eight,
he’s learned how to say goodbye.
We sat all alone in a pew of the new church.
We watched a friend give his first sermon—
on Sainthood.
Coleman watched my friend’s son, Jake,
the acolyte who sat behind the altar.
After, we emerged to the cool autumn air.
Coleman allowed it was all quite good
and nicely short;
“but the round lady up front sang a bit loud
and a little bit off.”
Coleman is eight. He’s learning perspective.