Even when he worked a double shift
at the plant, my father gave me night rides,
his shoulders strong, weighted with time.
He carried me up to another world
of breezes and branches. Weightless,
I became all reaching hand and air.
The sky crayoned purple, the moon
a pleasant zero, content and
whole in silver.
A space between the trees opened
with a gentle stirring, revealing
stars and planets, patient, waiting.
So briefly, the interlocking gears
of the sky—paused—their labors,
time’s punch clock frozen for now.
My legs clenched round his neck,
leaves lowering like medals
I would pin on him if I could.
By Sean Lause
Sean Lause is a professor of English at Rhodes State College in Lima, Ohio. His poems have appeared in The Minnesota Review, Another Chicago Magazine, The Beloit Poetry Journal and Illuminations.