Lee and Charles (my good grandfathers, 
his great-grandfathers) gave him
their names — he vast enough 
to hold them, child measurer 
rendering my coffee dangerous 
with the square meat thermometer, 
weighing everything until the scale 
gave up. Child on springs 
never walking. Missing link, 
scrambling to the refrigerator top, 
garage roof, crook in the apple tree. 
Natural Lee, Literal Lee, General Lee, 
indulging our humor, sighing 
fake exasperation when we turned 
the cushions askew. Child decoder 
learning to read from STOP signs, 
playing chess in tournaments — 
small arms reaching to move queens, 
startling gangly opponents. Wonderer, 
wanderer, child vapor, escaping 
through the screen door when I swore
to keep him in. His coffee table book
Homes of the Presidents rescued 
from rain, memorizer of presidents,
white-haired Lincoln at Halloween.  
Playing the Kennedys 
his sister told him, Whatever you do 
Jack, don’t go to Dallas
in November.  

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