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Living with a four-year-old dictator 
I had forgotten how it feels
For my own youngest is forty; but now I remember.

He will not let me trim a bush
That hits him in the face as he comes off a slide.
“I like it, grandma!” he protests.

He stops singing when I mention how cute it sounds.
All of the outside chairs have been moved and stacked,
Under the sand pile, their legs sticking out in various angles.

The mulch I put out an hour before he came
Has now been dug up and transplanted.
And not by a groundhog.

“I am not your best friend!” he cries out
Whenever I give him any kind of redirection
As he knows it is non-negotiable

I just got it again 
After refusing to retrieve the ball he kicked
Into the back forty for the hundred and twelfth time.

In another thirty-six years I will probably
Be happily watching this natural athlete’s
Son or daughter kick a ball into the back forty

If I know me, I will also be retrieving it.

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