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.