Hello, Brother

As he approached the front entrance to the mosque, 
the gunman appeared to be greeted by one of the worshippers. 

    -Wikipedia 

There's another one, my son remarks,
that pure, steady, every-day-is-truly-a-new-day 
wonder brightening his voice, running for president.
I nod and set before him a plate—fried egg, buttered toast— 
and this, if I've counted right, is the eleventh 
of the one hundred and seventeen tasks I've set 
for myself this day, which is why I merely nod, 
even as my son goes on to say he thinks it's about time 
we had a woman president and his teacher from last year 
would be a good president, though maybe not
his teacher this year because to be a good president 
you have to be stern sometimes, but stern in a way
that's kind, even if there are people who don't always
do their best or listen—and now for longer than a mouthful 
I notice he's been silent, which is when I tune the world 
back in: with a toast triangle he's pointing at the radio, 
my nine year old son—he's only nine—Dad, he's saying, 
listen. There's been another one.