Kyoto Station. I wait for my wife to come
back from the bathroom. Spread before me’s a scale
-model Lego terminal, whole elephant of it faithful
down to the cell: sprawled plaza, tunnels, shop aisles titanium-
gunmetal grey, rooftop palms rendered to the frond—
and I’m pulled back to my den in Western Mass,
at six or seven, red tub of Legos poured out, an endless
Saturday on the scratchy brown rug.
How badly I want
to be a father. Have tried two years. Our own tub
(wouldn’t have to be a tub) poured out on our own rug...
Our last brush, her OB called “an early loss.”
Piece hunted, on hands and knees, till we gave up.
Still—each shade of desire’s in this dazzling chromatic,
each tiny, round-headed passenger, expertly placed.
Christopher R. Vaughan is a teacher and poet based in Minneapolis. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Hawai’i Pacific Review, Review Americana, Canyon Voices, Del Sol Review, Connecticut River Review, and What Rough Beast.