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?