I get the same response that I’ve always gotten:
a look of excitement and joy,
immediate effort to rise and head for the car.
But rising is now a major project,
and jumping up into the
back seat is not possible.
So I lift him up, moving mechanically,
trying to drive my grief and dread down into my gut.
How many times have I said, “Let’s go for a ride”?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem