The Boy
His hands are around my ankles, that boy
I was,
tugging me back to see him.
I knew him not, hardly can imagine him
or review him again in a reflecting eye.
Adults talk of their youth, poets embellish,
but I am older than any fresh faced poem
and the curtain calls and cheers
of long past years are dimmed. I cannot hear him,
how did he speak, what future did he hope to be?
There are no photographs,
no sound recordings.
The child is mute, the curly brown hair,
his bashful curious stare are left
loosely articulated in a warped frame
of incomplete memory.
Yet today he tugs and catches at my mind
wanting to be seen, acknowledged, loved.
I turn around seeking to find that self
that I grew away from.
I sense he wants to lead me back
to where we lost each other. To show
me the bifurcation of our life, where he
died that I might live on as a man.
Two things I know we still have in common:
he was a lonely child, and today
without him, I am a lonely man.
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