His little Lego

arms outstretched,

Aeneas stares

across the Styx,

watching his

clay father fade

into a cotton-ball’s

white mist.

What is there

to say? I love it.

I cup my son’s 

soft neck,

and peer with him

into its depths

until the teacher 

bellows Parents!—

which means it’s time

It’s time kiddo

for her to take

by his small wrist

the boy who clings

to me like death,

as if he knows:

it is no myth.