I boil eggs and talk to my child as he perches on the wooden countertop. I dance for him and he laughs. I want him to remember me dancing in the kitchen. My smile as long as the road we live on. My attention a spotlight on his small, round face. I read him a poem and syrup sweet words fall from his mouth. I ask him if he thinks I'm weird and he tells me no. He tells me I'm the best poem in the world. And I find enough energy within these moments to fuel my entire day. I find solace in the small. The other day my face was wet. Slick like vinyl and my mind was a bad neighborhood where I go, but for a small-suspended moment I remembered that I was the best poem in the world to the small boy with the seltzer sparkle eyes. And I just picked myself up and walked into the light.