through the slits of his curtain
a trick of the light
a gift by the dark
vanishing in the fluorescent's
sudden punishing bright
a dozen he counted
one for each month
January's uncertainty
February's swiftness
etching his father's face with lines of glory
March's memories
April's foolery
May, the only month ,
time flows correctly,
when his mother bloomed pretty
June, midterms and family vacations and- I'm sorry
Are we going too quickly?
as if July and August are just stories
talking of his sister
a warm bear hug in September
October of full bellies
November's rain for sleeping comfy
And December-
December is a fury, isn't she?
Throwing storm after storm after storm
and a baby
not the smartest nor the strongest
just a baby
counting the rays of light seeping into his cot
wishing, WISHING
to grow up nicely
to learn what it means
to be happy
