Stroking my son’s hair, cowlicked with dreams,
and whispering, “Sorry, time for school,”
just sinks him deeper into sleep. But when I sing,
I’m an invisible alpaca; I don’t make much noise.
I’m an invisible alpaca; I bite little boys,
his lip-corners twitch up. He squeals
as I give his knee the pincer-squeeze I’ve blamed
on alpacas since the petting zoo. “I see you, Dad!”
“I’m an alpaca,” I squeak, and nip and bite
until he’s up, sloshing in dawn’s icy creek
that sweeps him to my car. “Be good,” I warn.
“Alpaca’s here.” “I don’t see him. Prove it!”
“Not everything real can be proved,” I insist.
Too soon, my young empiricist will boot Alpaca
into Babyland where Thomas the Tank Engine,
Barney, and Fooyuck Monster already pine.
Now, with new Shaquille O’Neal high-tops,
he kicks my car door closed. “Bye Erik,”
Alpaca cries. “Bye Dad,” my boy sighs, waves,
and shrugs on his backpack big as a Marine’s
as my car inches forward, others shoving up
to unload their own vanishing cargo.
One last wave, then he’s bouncing down
the concrete stairs as if he’s riding an alpaca
on a steep trail carved by those cloud-dwelling
magicians who built Machu Picchu
and, wood flutes wailing, went invisible too.