to beat the froggiest   
of morning voices,   
   my son gets out of bed   
and takes a lumpish song   
   along—a little lyric   
learned in kindergarten,   
   something about a   
boat. He’s found it in   
   the bog of his throat   
before his feet have hit   
   the ground, follows   
its wonky melody down   
   the hall and into the loo   
as if it were the most   
   natural thing for a little   
boy to do, and lets it   
   loose awhile in there   
to a tinkling sound while   
   I lie still in bed, alive   
like I’ve never been, in   
   love again with life,   
afraid they’ll find me   
   drowned here, drowned   
in more than my fair   
   share of joy.