You twist my innards, the way you toddle
about the world, all seventy-five inches of you.
You’ve got a siren-alarm heart, in bungling search
for that hat you were meant to wear, with your fingers
pulling after it like they used to pull china-bearing
table cloths.
I don’t mind, it’s just that you wouldn't have me catch
those pieces that can crash, the ones that could be
heirlooms,
the ones that no amount of glue could salvage.
In you is a boy who runs, hands-over-head,
open-palmed into outstretched arms.
No one told you that you are made of porcelain.
When the brunt of burgeoning manhood bores
that boy, through and through,
I will hold myself a car-key-dangle away,
I will place a razor-trim trail back to me.
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