A Father’s Aubade

I wish you mistook 
the Moon for a hole, 
a portal, feigning 
but present in waxing 
fullness against blue 
sky, early morning—
a point you think 
connects you to ancients, 
mythologies you enjoyed 
me reading late at bedtime.   
But you know 
it’s just the Earth’s moon, 
you understand a little 
too much about its phases, 
vast ocean tides, 
the Sun’s influences.   
Yet, I utter wishes 
to you anyway in hope 
mystery resides 
still somewhere 
under your floppy hair, 
behind your black, 
square glasses.   
You roll your eyes 
and go back
to perfecting 
the left-footed akka 
in front of the goal 
with tattered netting 
you’ve been working 
on for hours already.   
I’m not all that good 
at flinging myself 
in the universe 
of your interests, 
but I know this orb 
you sleep with at night, 
worn out and dirty
after only a month’s 
use, is your soul’s 
portal I mistake 
for a soccer ball.