Sometimes, when I hug my children,
they refuse to feel like mine.
I am still that young boy
riding his bike to the soccer field.
A summer spent whacking weeds,
dodging stones, and drinking
schnapps on the beach with drifters,
hitchhiking to and from
canneries killing all the fish.
Those guys were so old —
bearded and clawing their way
to a seat at the table.
I’m their age now. I sit
where they sit, and my kids
will drink schnapps on the beach,
and hopefully dodge the same stones.