“Pause your music,” I say.
“Look.”
He obeys, comprehending
not my words
but a quality of tone.
In the box the President
pauses, too; the First Lady,
the crowd crushed together,
the bells.
Later the day goes on as days do:
the child and his music
and me in the kitchen scrubbing
pans trying not to think
about the iron scent common
to steel and blood.
