Cold

On this early morning in Vancouver, my son and I stop

on our way to breakfast when we hear

the Kenyan will soon be running past this corner.

Of course we want to see his gorgeous stride,

but after half an hour I’m shivering

in my thin sweater. That’s when my son begins

to rub my back—offering up the heat of his palms.

What could be better than to stand here hungry

and be curried like this? If I hadn’t been cold

I wouldn’t have his hands on my spine,

flaring across my shoulder blades. For a moment

it seems possible that every frailty, every pain,

could be an opening, a crack that lets the unexpected

reach us. How can I remember this

when I’m old and need so much?