I put the expedition together,
and all the boys in the sixth grade
signed up. After all, we needed 
doctors, scientists, any kid who’d climbed
Kennesaw, no matter how small, 
with their father once.
Anyone who had a real tent, 
a BB gun, a scout knife. 
The girls only scoffed, which was okay, 
since they were only girls anyway.

We did our research, World Book
from the library on primates, photos
of size 20 footprints splayed 
in snow crust, Himalayas, Hillary, 
Sherpas, Everest, yaks and maps, 
and we were ready to go, face 
unafraid that high altitude future,
massive, hairy, strong as we wanted
to grow, a beast as fierce as all
of our parents put together.
                        

I can’t imagine, on this autumn morning,
ever waiting with my father 
on cold corners for school buses,
much less hugging him
goodbye as I do my daughter.
(O lucky, lucky bus 
to get to enfold her body
into your own.)

Seems like everybody does it
these days, even jocks. 
That kid there, as tall, hugs 
his old man, and gets hugged 
back.

Only as he lay dying
did he reach 
for my hand.  

After the bus leaves, we
I walk back home alone, along a path
already white with frost.