Sky of His Eye
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The Kiss (1845-1848) by Honoré Daumier
Church starts in 15, and I’m still getting dressed,
Fingers flying down the buttons on my chest.
Sure as Christ did rise, my boy is watching me;
He’s buttoning his own, one in every three.
If I listen close through iron hitting floor
I can hear his little grunts—1, 2, 3, 4.
He tells me to look, puffing out his bare chest,
And if I don’t squeeze his arm, he’ll never rest.
He marches his bare feet right in front of mine
And looks up at me with those big eyes that shine.
With pajamas wrinkled and hair all nappy,
He tells me his nap made him big like daddy.
Oh Lord, that little man will never know
How much growing his old man has to go.
So when I bend down to tell him how big he is,
I tell myself to have a heart big as his.
Every son comes with a big red cape
Tailored to dad, no matter his shape.
I hope one day mine will fly as high
As it does in the sky of his eye.
Dedication: To my hero, Hugo
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