“This space is reserved for parents without children.”

When the kids can’t swim in the canal, Old King David’s rather mute: permanent rooftop PB&J ogling a sweater waiting to be knitted inside. Take a big breath and push away the cup, the bread, the blood–if only we were. Paying for an invisible medical school is an education of endless cycles of ending. Cycles and no yellow shirts, no riding–some nights it’s quite useless, finishing [sighing] a stage, weekly, a following with rockin’ praise, “You give and take away”–yes, but you can’t take what you haven’t given. An audience refilled again and again with homemade inkjet infants, bags and beepers in hand as the slow and the sluggish–always next year’s crop–scrapes against the empty barrel, mourning dove-tailed together, an empty drawer separated to inlay another crafted soul. There is no extra, no backup, no sending in reinforcements, only the chosen six-day blast into inner space, a little bud implanted in hardening ground, and on the seventh day he rested….