The boy is beautiful
Byronic forehead Falling curls
I picture him in profile
He‘ll be a fine poet
Such vigor blended
With careful strokes
All finely bred
This so easy to recall:
All my “Why only just yesterdays… “
To be remembered and replayed
Trail off in unfinished sentences
He asks how I grow
My life as a poet
A reasonable question
From one with such talent
Who tends his ambition
And nurtures what‘s given
I stare at him in wonder
My mouth agape
Brow stitched into Z-puzzzles
As startled as the Wedding Guest
Seized by Skinny Hand
But the skinny hand
Indeed be mine
And with those roles reversed
I tell him I have
No tale to grow
And have already been pruned
Too much, too hard
But if you stay and hear me
You'll learn I have no choice
‘Tis simply what I‘m compelled to do
The way I may stay alive, not die
Tithing my slave who sets me free
What I wear around my neck
Is but a noose that let‘s me be
Be fully who I already am
And strangely keeps me sane