My Mister

My mister is so small still,
Cries for me when he falls off his bike.
Training wheels still in place,
He races down the sidewalk. 
Mario Andretti on two wheels.
And I race toward his tears, his little bleeding knees
From where I stood feet away on the grass.

And I want for him to slow down. 
But now the training wheels have been removed 
By his father when I was gone for an hour
For milk and cumin for soup.
And now he is popping the front tire 
And jumping curbs
Because he is truly amazing.
And I do a great deal of breath holding,
Atheist prayers to a nonexistent God
From where I sit on the front stairs.

And I want for him to simply slow down
As he races through the street,
Wheelies, look-ma-no-hands, side saddles.
And I have images of him crashing onto the side walk 
Cracking his head open, bleeding the pavement red 
Which he doesn’t do but which could very well happen
And I remind him of this risk 
With shouts out the screen door.

I want for him to wear the helmet
Which I provided for him and strapped under his chin
While he grimaced and pushed me away.
Hanging now by a nail in the garage
A relic of some time long forgotten
When I still hoped I could protect him.
And he just races away
And I stand looking out at him through the window
With no choice but to watch him go.

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