Only the pool is your listening, the house's tumult.
Still it by entering . First, they will frown ,
Falling silent.
And their final smiles will nail the night shut.
They always knew
What their child wanted to hear
And never quite caught, slipping
Through the hazy light of their voices.
There was a real prize .
Should they tell him?
"Those nights you lay awake
And we, having waited until you went to bed ,
Began to share our news
Or listened to a friend or stranger
Layout a plot before us
Like a simple or intricate gift
Unwrapped on a coffee table
Or extended across the living room floor –
Yes , you were missing something.
And what if an occasional clue ,
A mere gnat of an episode , flitted
Into your hearing? So young then ,
You could only have built
A dream or nightmare of it.
"It is too late to tell you
Any of what you missed , largely,
Because we have forgotten , and possibly ,
Now you are grown , because you have heard it all ,
And repeated to yourself, wisely,
'This old story of his or hers-
I know it already .' And sometimes ,
You have said so to us, cruelly,
And pushed it , this tale of our identities,
Away like a hug or a kiss ."
