Cold

On this early morning in Vancouver, my son and I stop 
on our way to breakfast when we hear 
the Kenyan will soon be running past this corner. 
Of course we want to see his gorgeous stride, 
but after half an hour I'm shivering 
in my thin sweater. That's when my son begins 
to rub my back--offering up the heat of his palms. 
What could be better than to stand here hungry 
and be curried like this? If I hadn't been cold 
I wouldn't have his hands on my spine,
flaring across my shoulder blades. For a moment 
it seems possible that every frailty, every pain, 
could be an opening, a crack that lets the unexpected 
reach us. How can I remember this 
when I'm old and need so much? 

--Ellen Bass