Falling Away

Now that our son has left home with his Jordans,

his blonde girlfriend, the grey folding couch -

after I’ve cleared the basement

of Legos, incense, vaginal sponges -

I turn to my wife, whose idea

it was for us to become parents,

turn to her in the milk blue shade

of our life, and I am lost -

between his reasonable departure

and our newfound freedom,

caught in memories of train sets,

bike jumps, missing teeth, report cards

and what to do now - our aging bodies,

feigning a purpose, boredom.

I can’t blame her, she is as innocent as I,

perched on the other side of emptiness -

the phantom grasp of mothering.