Spinning

I hold my two-year-old son   
under his arms and start to twirl.   
His feet sway away from me   
and the day becomes a blur.   
Everything I own is flying into space:   
yard toys, sandbox, tools,   
garage and house,   
and, finally, the years of my life.   

When we stop, my son is a grown man,   
and I am very old. We stagger   
back into each other's arms   
one last time, two lost friends   
heavy with drink,   
remembering the good old days.

Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2006 by Kevin Griffith, whose most recent book of poetry is "Denmark, Kangaroo, Orange," Pearl Editions, 2007. Poem reprinted from "Mid-American Review," Vol. 26, no. 2, 2006, by permission of Kevin Griffith and the publisher.