however grown up

 six.
.
.
six.
.
.
why only yesterday
it seems that fist shot out
that one eye winked.
.
.
and yet
now that this day's arrived
it really is as if six years
have blinked - and you've sprung
through a thousand instant snaps
into this boy whose tongue
can't help but say thought not thinked
who's no longer to be fed
with ideas any more than food
will pick and choose as he wishes
will draw with his fingers inked
will behave as a baby still
when it suits his own deep schemes
whose eyes look out on the world
with a sense that six is wise
and there's nothing that can't be grasped
if time and mood are right 
and want and reward are linked

and truth (however grown up)
doesn't do the dirty on instinct

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