By Deborah Bacharach

My parents want grandkids.
They've been dropping hints like
When are you going to give us
grandkids? I get it.

They've got wooden blocks
in a barrel. They long to hold
the smooth edges again, make
a train track to Uzbekistan,

a tower to the moon. Pete Seeger's
cued up, the actual record,
all around the kitchen cockadoodle
doodle do. The way I used to.

I picture myself with a son--
six years old in plastic boots.
Let's make them yellow.
He has cinnamon sugar still on his skin.

He takes my hand in an April rain.
I stamp. He stamps twice.
We giggle down the sidewalk, swing
our arms and sing nonstop.

He wades into cattails and skunk cabbage.
Burrowing, his blue windbreaker barely
crowns the earth's detritus.
I don't call. I don't wait. I walk away.