On my way to my desk
in my office, I open the window
to the spring-autumn scent and birdsong.
Below it, under the drum stool,
sits an old Marvin the Martian toy.
Which of my sons left it there?—probably the oldest.
He still plays with toys despite
being in high school.
He flies and flips them through the air
and bombs everything with their
and his special-effects noises. Kbpshhhh!
That never gets old.
I wish children never got old.