They haven’t always been here

There was a time when I would sit on my rooftop

With the Oquirrhs catching the first sun

And the lake that looks as solid as silver.

Back then we lived where the road ended.

In our house on the corner where asphalt and dirt meet.

Me and the borrowed shoes I don’t plan on returning

And my son straddling the eaves in his hat three sizes too big.

King of all he sees—and he sees more than me

He has always seen more than me

Of course, he’s older now

His hands can touch the ceiling

He walks shirtless through the house

and his mother tells him to eat.

I wish I had a photo where his hand wasn’t over his face

Or a time when his words weren’t so measured.

The truth is, though, I’d like a time to sit on the roof,

And watch him pound on the shingles with a plastic mallet.

Just me and him, and the sun that slithers

along Lake Mountain Road.