little boy

little boy, ungrown in places:
limbs longer than years, baby’s
skin, clothes you told your mother
how to buy.
You are standing on the very edge of
manhood, Vans-clad toes over
the edge, adult breezes
disrupting your hair, but

your soul is a child. You are trying
to emulate the studied boredom of your companion
(half-brother? You share his
skin tone but not the heavy lines of his skull)
but you are unfailingly delighted by the world, by
passing buildings and
arriving ideas, and you cannot
keep from
lighting up

little boy, if you only knew that your
sheer
unfettered
joy
was the only thing you would ever need, you would be
a conqueror of worlds

but I fear
(and how I fear, because I already
love you, anonymous child, the way I imagine mothers
love their sons)
you will let your joy slip from you and end up
just
a man.

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