The year he graduated from Yale
I was born under a full moon.
I wonder what he would say
if he were a poet:
brag about his marble floors,
the wooden framework of his
winding stairs, the California lilacs
his wife brings home from her hikes.
There’s a scar on his shoulder,
but I can’t remember which.
Under a waning crescent
I ripped my socks running
the four blocks from his home to mine.