I watch the first time he opens the door on his own.
I watch the first time he opens the door easy.

I’ve been waiting for Elvis to go fuzzy,
it’s fall, there’s low sunlight,
and they need to look him up, spell p-r-e-s-l-e-y,
but there are mean, mean drums on the stereo—
a shook growl and a jagged curve from one to four.

While I wait, I question the force in my shoulders.

There is my father’s speech and my own,
and there are the places we meet, maybe,
the rhythm of a small man running,
the shook up growl of a teacher explaining
to the hallway and the sidewalk and dusk.

I guess again about the mechanics of throwing—
socket, pivot, ball.

I press my tongue into my gums,
push pain into the bone by the porcelain.
The table is clean. The lights are clean.

And I draw toward the perfect curve, then again,
back to the tension between practice and habit,
leaning over gravity as a private dare,
working dull pencils and turning worn gears,
lifting a child with one arm, easy,
but something’s gone wrong with my wrist.