than me, little beanpole
budboy. You
slouch sometimes because
all the other boys are
shorter and you
lisp a little because
your teeth are still
retained but I see
you
in your messages, in your
jokes, in your calm composure
snorkeled face to snoutnose face with
a shark.
You outgrew your
blazer already, obviously,
because no amount of
Newman O's or grilled cheese
could fill your stomach
these days, and every time I
come home and you run to
the door your stick legs
are three inches longer. And
I was so happy when mom
gave me the blazer: Brooks
Brothers youth small thick
double fabric, gold buttons,
striped lining, the same that you
will keep wearing until
Mom and Dad don't dress
you anymore. I like carrying
you on
my back, like so many
piggybacks and pony
rides, like you carry that
big backpack, now, full of
long books and A+ tests
in Spanish, when you
remember to do your
homework.
You still run like a child, a little
gimpy, but
I see the lope coming,
I see the fire that will light
something more than this fun
phase of pyromania and strobe
lights, the fire that
maybe set you off
on the first of many runs
with Dad on the first day
of spring. Spring off, beanpole
budboy, lope away, just
promise me you will
always hug me the way
you have since I could
carry you.
CVP
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