It takes practice, this inattention

to life beyond the desk.

To ignore the thudding footfalls

on the porch, the slither

of mail through the slot.

What did I tell you? Someone

on this block is eating Chinese

food and singing Karaoke. And, look,

it may rain; a squirrel must move

her kits, one by one, from the perilous

drainpipe to some new, undisclosed,

location. Later, my own children

begin building something,

a time machine, using the boxes

I was saving for Christmas,

several miles of Scotch tape,

and the new bread knife. Now,

surely, that is reason enough

to put this work away?

If the time machine works,

I want to go with them.