My youngest son dragoned in zippered green fabric
waves a red shovel and hoe and Adams an Eden in the hall.
My oldest son dumptrucks a wagon of brown plastic horses
onto the ranch of the rug and rides a smile
into the western afternoon, full of wrangling.
With the autumning of my body
I weigh the jump-roping of their play-
from hot-rods, dinosaurs, and hard-hatted Indians
with six-shooters and wooden spoons belted to their sides
to the jackhammering through leaves
behind the Frankensteined soccerball-
the scales midlife into crisis.
Later, as my sons -on their stomachs- teeter-totter their legs,
I shiver when a tower of blocks Babel them
as it nine-elevens to the floor.