Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Baby: He Blurs lines

Baby: He Blurs lines 

I saw him the other day
With his father.
Driving over curbs
Spilling coffee
Swashing through apologies
And slipping on speed bumps.

I saw him the other day
With his mother.
Sitting while laundry was folded,
Gossiping while cats were fed
Asking for money
Calling to check in
Bringing home cookies and making lemonade,
And waving goodnight.

I saw him the other day
With his best friend.
Riding his bike too fast
Working too little
Drinking too much
Blurring the lines between excess and climax
Shaking hands and keeping distances
Hitting lacrosse balls with hockey sticks
And blurring the lines between twelve and twenty.

I saw him the other day
With me.
Gently suggesting I pump my breaks,
Raising an eyebrow at cleavage and coatless Januarys.
Raising a hand at a thirty point scrabble word
Raising to stand at dropped gloves and lip gloss
Laughing at bad jokes
As long as they are better than last weeks
And remembering there is always room for improvement.

I saw him the other day,
And I thought:
I want a boy like that someday.
With fine light hair and missing front teeth,
To teach to be just like him
When he is somewhere between the lines
Of twelve and twenty. 

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