Selective Vision


These are my children, and
This is my life.
Rain against the picture window,
The little one asleep
On the couch with a fever.
There are no men cartwheeling
From one hundred stories up,
No acrid wind in the trees.
My boy cuts catalog pictures
For an alphabet book, looks
For his glue stick. I warm
Coffee in the microwave.
There are no maps with escape routes
Stowed in the car, no
Discussion of anthrax saved
On my home computer.
A tower of laundry
Obscures what's down the pike.
I buy Halloween costumes
and methodically repeat, "These
Are my children and
This is my life."