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.”