a second time

He wants to be with them, again.
He wants to hold them and hug them and
watch them play “Underwear People”
in the living room
on Courville, while they mime
out “Billie Jean.”
He wants to feel their clammy
hands and their slobbery
kisses and
wipe their noses with his sleeve.
He wants to hear them talk
to him
to him,
and tell him things that
are so very important
to no one but them –
the squirrel in the back yard,
the bug on the porch step, the
dandelions that sprouted
like rafts
of flowers
on
the tree lawn almost overnight.
(“Dad, look!”)
He wants to do those things,
again, but not just that.
He wants
to do them better, this
time – listen better; hug better; kiss them better; love them better.
Better.
But the second time is a never time,
now, and
he
knows
that well, too too well.