The First Thing

The first thing was an orange crate.
Cake tin lids for wheels and a room
filled with things to bump into or
around. A forest of chair legs 
cushions wooden cubes and woven
circles cylinders and the high plateau
where we raised our arms and ate
red green white brown yellow.
He sat behind a paper screen
held wide open a wall of alphabet
black and white an M a J an F
between us. My crate full of toys.
His slippered feet speed bumps or
sleeping policemen he called them.
But today when I burst through
onto his lap the world exploded.
He was the center and it did not
hold. That was the day I met
his anger. When did the days

begin to have names? Sunday
was a real day beginning to end.
Down the avenue of trees we walked.
Hand in hand with the giant
through the dark tunnel.
It was safe with him really.

We came out onto a river bank
where knots of men hunched
darkly over their fishing poles
divining the world beneath
the surface. Each tied on
to something I couldn't see.
Once a log floated by. No
a branch waving its shredded
stump caught up in the current.
Until I saw that the river
was a wet road you could
not cross. He answered
every question I asked.
Tomorrow will be Monday.