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The Kids We Never Made

Allan Lake

With your dark skin and my fair,
your black curls, my straight hair –
genetic grab bag. Son with long legs,
daughter short. But we were strangers
when procreation was possible so no jockey.
I tried things; you never got to high school.
Neither tripped on mounds of money.
What ifs, crossroads, chance encounters
in the dark. At a bar stuck in bohemia
I met a guy I might’ve become if
I hadn’t veered off that dirt road.
Dodging bullets needs agile, conscious action.
Not guilty, Your Honour. Meanwhile,
you adopted my language after a night
flight from Sicily. I flirted with languages,
got hooked on my own after flipping lucky
Upper Canada penny to choose a career.
Coin got lost. Don’t tell Grandpa
if you bump into his white-haired ghost.
Other outcomes would’ve lead to fruitless-
to-consider ‘if only’ vocations in a sea
of variables that many wallow in,
turn into fiction or history, merging
the two. Could’ve been a contender,
coin-collecting money-lender.
We’d be otherwise, other weeds,
other where, with other halves.
Baby step left or right, ill-considered
trip or missed vaccination, chance
meeting in hospital. Your accent, Nurse?
Warp and weft, your yarn plus mine.
We’ve woven what we became into
a comfy, misshapen childless quilt.
That’s what happens unless,
of course, it doesn’t.



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