My son asks at breakfast if today can be
a yes day, grinning up from his bowl of fruit
because we’re not that kind of family. Even the baby
knows the words to “You Can’t Always Get
What You Want,” throws back her head
and crows in a raspy Jagger voice about making do
with what you need. I turn up the volume and call it
a dance party, arms extended for the reedy
boys’ choir intro, then the full-body thrash, a line drawing
done with a blindfold, necks slightly off
our shoulders, wants dispersing in a whip
of hair, a reverential ahh. Once I skipped
a friend’s graduation party because I couldn’t think
of anything to say. I drove two hours
along the river with the windows down, a tangle
of honeysuckle, blank card on the seat
beside me. Congrats, grad! In the line drawing,
there are speed marks, spiraling wheels, smudge
of face half a car-length behind, begging for
a moustache or a blackened tooth, but I don’t have
the time. I’ve got my hands
on the steering wheel and a cell phone riding
shotgun, scheduling my merge into the day
school drop-off lane, my route downtown to the garage
where I’ll slide into a jacket, grab my files,
ride the elevator up to an office with a paneled door I’ll shut
before the singer in the belly of this poem
bursts out with his purple velvet pants,
full mouth, eyes twinkling as if he’s not going to
unhinge his jaw, kick the microphone stand
from his path, shrug off the tight knit
of his day and strut into the audience
to howl an old, electric want.