The sound of the rain — its patter and drip
is as soothing as being held in my father’s grip
above his head as he lies face-up on the ground,
my mother sitting at a picnic table in the background.
My father has a white t-shirt on and is looking at me
while I soar at the ends of his arms, a turkey-shaped bundle,
in the air, looking ahead.
Bio: Wayne Burke has had work published recently in Boston Review, FORGE, and Bareback.