March is about to dawn––less of a Lion, more of a Lamb, where I sit––and something about that fact makes me want to run out to the driveway, draw a certain grid, and jump some hopscotch. But…mostly to write poetry. 

Overhead, red cardboard cupids criss-cross the room, dancing on white streamers. Then you notice the torn scraps of paper strewn around the dance floor––red crepe paper, twisted in little thumbnail shapes to look like rose petals––and your resolve almost deserts you.

But no matter what adventures we’re having, we always make it to the Carnegie Deli on Seventh Avenue –– before noon, ahead of the crowd––to get our favorite table under the famous people photographs. They kind of expect us there. Dad says we’re like Carnegie Deli celebrities ourselves

For many years I’ve tried to unwrap its promise as if it were a long-anticipated present….but keep getting caught up in the metaphorical tape, ribbons and paper.

The world had seemed a happy place before sundown that fall day, a universe pausing its dance for a moment while we stood center stage among its wonders.