First Step

Insomnia glides over
like a nighthawk, drives me

from the shelter of my sleep.
My mind, a fleeing field mouse,

darts from worry to worry —
collection threats from creditors,

a rat encamped behind
the dishwasher, downspouts

clogged with maple leaves.
But then a memory comes

drifting in with solace
like warm milk,

my eldest son’s first step.
We were bundled in our

threadbare layers, to cut
the icy edges of December

in New Jersey. Some friends
had come for dinner, other

grad students from Canada,
Korea, not quite making it,

on short-term jobs,
under-table payments,

student aid.
Our lad quite suddenly

lifted and set down
one fleece-clad foot,

then fell into a safety net
of waiting hands.

Cheers rose friendly
as a hearth fire

where we sat
on sagging armchairs,

packing crates,
a sofa with no legs.

Tears these decades later
as I pull up covers,

tuck myself back in
beside my wife.