You have been eleven for the last twenty seasons
in my memory the photographs and my camcorder
I watch moments shared with you on the television screen
as I sometimes imagine God might look upon us
as if looking at a different life
with Socko on your hand and you hiding
behind the other side of the couch singing
tiny bubbles in the air and I don’t want to shut
it off but there are no more scenes just blank tape
mother dreamt you were older and living well I don’t remember
my dreams about you other than you with hair
and without skinny and fat lively and drained
my dreams of you coming in the night leaving just a simple
imprint
behind memories of love and you
you are still eleven
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