he’ll say, it’s a bug.

If I say it likes him,
he’ll say, who needs friends?

If I say, once it was a caterpillar,
he’ll say, next it’ll be dead.

If I say, it’s a symbol of change,
he’ll inch his butt to the bench’s edge,

rock back and forth, back and forth,
like the physical therapists taught him

to get momentum, to stand safely,
then after three settling breaths

he’ll turn and start shuffling
towards the car.

If he’s feeling steady enough, if
the breeze isn’t too hard, he might

spread-wide those bony elbows
look back at me

and flap them.

Appeared in Sugar House Review