Who Am I

You are the little grown boy That fiddle with every toy Running in the rain With friends and hearts plain. You are the son of your father And the favorite of your mother You are the love that found love That love tailed from the dove. You are the Daddy That the children desires to teddy The man always there for hers A wall to lean when she errs. You are the strange poet That has picked from my poetry pocket Not lost but lost to remember himself Could poetry be selfish to steal oneself? You are just you Thinking I found you As you read each line I hope it makes you fine. You are the one poetry steals But not your heat to steels You are the one this poetry finds In prints and lines.