I’m high on hope, breath held. Below, my boys,
manhood addicts, yell, ‘Dad, we’ve given up.
You win. Lunch is ready. Come on.’ I’m poised
to plunge into their gang, a stunt, to drop
from the sky, a bold paladin’s surprise
ending after eluding their long search,
a chevalier, for once, in their eyes.
My feet balance feet from them on my perch.
Then they hurry off from beneath the bough.
Our stout melaleuca’s papery trunk
shields me, riveted in time. Too late now,
I planned a gymnast’s landing, a soft thunk,
but their white light moved on before I knew,
transient, soon gone, that long-legged crew.