Just another free space
on the old bingo card
on an afternoon off
when he’d planned to jog
but landed at a taco joint
where he gobbled the full bandito
with a well-worn woman at the bar,
who after three margueritas
followed him to his favorite park
to fly the kite he kept
in the trunk of his car,
a desperate enough lady
who laid with him
in the shade of a pear tree
trading life stories,
who leaned down
through the car window
before she drove away,
smiled and said,
“Don’t worry, little boy.
It’s okay to fly.”