For Avery

I can read you Vergil, beloved,
sing you the sun and moon and stars
and press your face to mine.

I can watch you while you sleep.
I can make you the sky, whisper
into your ear the Gold Coast lullaby
of night on the lakefront, toys that speak
Spanish and French and Chinese,

hymn to movie-star magazines lying
on white carpets and parents who love you
and rock you to your slumber every night.

Baby I can tell you stories,
can I ever, and read you Goodnight Moon
if it makes you happy, complete with the hush
at the end and the tinkle of music
that lulls you to bed. And I can love you
although you aren't mine.

But what I can't promise -
if only I could - is what I'd like to,
that in all life you'll never know sorrow,
never be lonely, have nothing but
this glamour and glare of affluence
and of people around you,

never know silence
or the soft quiet close of an evening
with no one to answer, and no one
to see but the lights of the city,

alone with one pint of Häagen-Dazs,
the Reader, and radio blues.