Riding in the wake
of your electric shock,
I was your therapy.
You pushed my plastic
carriage through the winter
with long, crazy fingers,
across the shadow of the house,
silent rubber wheels leaving tracks
in the snow,
footsteps melting into black holes.

We moved into the sun,
sticky as the yellow of an egg.
You, the white naired old man,
pushing me, the bald headed baby
before you in a Taylor Tot.
Round and round we went,
neither of us allowed to cross
the street, tightening the block;