My savior (a man my dad’s age)
holds the door as everyone else ignores us
I’ve been a parent, he says
I know how it is.
The stroller clunks through
halfway now
but the hipster with the half-and-half
is blocking our successful breach.
Excuse me, I apologize
and he shoots a sideeye
sharp enough to banish us back
to baby storytime in the suburbs.
I get it.
Our presence is less graceful
and less cool
and less free
and less revolutionary.
And it’s OK he doesn’t understand.
Because I know he’s never
brushed your hair
with the tiniest soft bristle brush
while you sip peach juice out of a jar.