After the Parade

All winter my mother carried my coat across her arm because I was too warm,

She calls to ask about rain, whether the boiler settled, if I found the blue receipt.

My father fixed the loose gate, the lamp with the stubborn switch, the bicycle chain that bit my thumb.

She does not ask what I need. She brings oranges, sets them in a blue bowl,

The uniform hangs behind winter coats, creased into discipline,

We called it the spare room, as if space were waiting for instructions.