after Leeming & Patterson
When we played all those blue games near the highway,
Mom didn’t stop us at first, though cars
flowed like the creek behind our house.
When we knocked over her favorite pot
of daisies on our rush
after a runaway soccer ball, then Mom dashed, overtook us.
Cars stop, now, and have
to claw their way
through a snagging siren.
Maybe this moment
is the moment,
friends suggest years later,
that I got my guardian angel. Maybe.
The stream still
has to use its teeth to get by.