It was when I was walking,
Walking with my father
That I could see with my eyes
the blue-print in action.
When I was three; I was sitting,
Sitting on his shoulders---
But still walking
Higher than everyone else.
He would walk to the market on Union
Where we could find an
Old man selling his petunias,
While his wife held a basket of fruit,
“A pound of berries for your daughter?”
“---Why not? After all, they are blue.”
When I was 6; I was swimming.
Swimming where the water hit my waist
But I pretended it was much deeper,
And when I wanted to be brave
I would swim to my father,
And even when his back was turned away,
He was already getting ready for me
To jump on and leech onto his back.
Then, I was crying,
Crying just because I could.
At that age it seemed like
Crying was the closest I could get
To saying sorry and showing I was blue.
And he was wiping,
Wiping my blue, blue tears
When they would steam.
Wiping my blue, blue sweat
When it would leak out of my
But when I was walking,
Walking away from the wooden seats
Of Central Park,
Walking away from the miles of words at STRANDS,
Walking away from the rancid subway
seats stained with gum and sharpie---
I was alone.
It wasn’t three anymore when I had a shoulder to sit on.
It wasn’t six anymore when I had a back waiting, and ready to be my rescue.
And there were no tears, no sweat.
Just me, sitting, and walking, and swimming in that,
That Blue, blue sky.