I wonder what a cherry pie tastes like

when baked by you on a Sunday.

You follow your mother’s recipe

and drop in just a little bit of heart,

laughing and blowing flour around

the marble countertop. I ask you

if you know where to get a good drink,

strong and still fruity, you say

you make the best margaritas.

I watch you work under the sink, under

the car, working with hands from

your father. My hands are my mother’s.

They never taught me how to be a man,

but I am more than enough for you.

I know nothing about those things.

When it comes to things like this, I know

about as much as our dog does.

He and I look at you with the same

happy, dopey eyes, thankful and wondering

and still happy to be here.