Gripping the stroller’s sides, you sat
at first like a Fabergé egg within a basket
—a sentimental image, to be sure,
but we are your parents, and allowed.
As we drifted slowly from pool to pool
of shade, you cooing, just this side
of talk, of walking, your mother and I
just this side of middle age,
I imagined reading shelves of books
and drinking imported beer from China,
while your mother spoke of movies
she’d like to see, sports we might take up,
and you gave yourself up to our whims of motion,
your sleep-suited feet scissoring with pleasure.