Lost Boy

Lost Boy

When he's tired, like this day's wear,
thoughts echo, bounce
off one bare wall to another.
In hollow of his palms, pink blooms.

Eyes ask day-break aide,
"What's this?"
"Azalea," she replies.
His daughter arrives—fifteen minutes late—

though time's loss, he wouldn't know.
Holds flowers out to her,
yellow pollen on gnarled fingers.
"Remember, Dad? Pixie dust."

Old-boned hands rubbed together overhead,
gold flecks into auburn and gray,
mind labors, at last, remembers,
"Look, Wendy, we can fly!"