To My Unborn Boy
by Peter M. Gordon
I picture you now and then
floating in heaven, nose pressed
to the bottom of a cloud watching
the rest of us drive to concerts, games,
school plays, discussing our day
around the kitchen table. Your chair
under the end of the table, alone.
Your mother and I meant to make you,
but your third brother was a whirlwind.
We put you off for a while, and finally
decided it was best for everyone here
to close that door leading to your life.
I like to think you don’t mind much.
You’ve never lived in this world, so
don’t know pain, desire, or joy.
I hope you know when I wave to clouds
today I am waving to you. When we meet
in that place where life always works out
the way we planned we’ll have much to say.
I still wonder what you would have become.