I once heard a couple discuss tile.

Italian tile.

Apparently it costs more per square

than I care

to spend.

I can’t see my floor.

I see a puzzle numbered 1-9;

there is no perfect 10.

I see nineteen books about animals,

and seven misplaced cheerios,

a spinning top with lights,

and stuffed animals lining up

to collect unemployment.

I see my son.

His back is to me.

His small, straight back.

His head is bent over

a pile of plastic blocks,

he is sorting them like so many

piles of gold,

or jewels from the dragons cave.

He turns and flashes a smile,

crawls over, clutching my sweat pants

with his grubby fingers.

My clothes are always dirty.

He crawls away and I reach

to grab his pajama foot

but he is too fast for me.