Expectant - Steve Trenam

[Lawrence Robinson]

Expectant
	for my granddaughter to be.

I like to believe, at times,
my imagination rescues the ordinary
from oblivion—that the murk
of everyday life gets into my poems.

My 17-year-old Ragamuffin cat, Misha,
speaks to me of aging. In his life span
I see my own, compressed.

When you first meet me, I will be
an old codger—a single Meyer lemon
glowing orange on a leafless branch—
a small harvest moon aging in place.
But giving over to age is not the same
as giving in.

I am getting to know you
even in utero. 
I already know you consider brie
a staple of your future diet.
And the long sinuous fingers
I saw in a sonogram will
play the piano. Your mother 
might have been a concert
pianist had she not been a ballerina.

Of course, you could be a dancer too.
In a couple of months, those strong
legs of yours will propel you
onto the stage of life—a glissade 
any audience would adore.

You will be multilingual, like
your mother. And if you run
a red light on your first driving
test, you won’t let it ruin your day.
You will go for a hike with your dad
who has always taught you
walking is the best form of transportation.

You will paint with one hand
and write with the other.
You will pay attention to your
surroundings and carry a notebook.

You will live your life with the muscularity
of risk. You will fight the tyrants of this 
world for freedom and equality.
And you will find a way to assist
the disadvantaged, as your mother
has done.

And perhaps above all else,
art will permeate and elevate
your life, no matter what form
it takes.

Now, take your first breath
Little Bird,
the sky awaits you.

	- Steve Trenam
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