for Donald on his 60th
Every child is an oracle
Telling the present;
While you rub the sleep from your eyes
They park on your chest.
Ambitions are accidental.
I mortared my want
Round decisions found like rocks in my shoes –
They read as a list.
What wasn’t possible
Is now old and frequent.
No matter what the fat man whispers,
Never mind the schoolboy fears,
Collect these paper scraps of prayers
And burn in the west.