MY BOY

Not pissing alone or tits of my ownOr rushes ofNot eating past seven or sleeping past sixOr free licence to dreamNot nights away or the cinemaOr cause for a made-up faceJeans that fit don’t do it for meAnd neither does personal spaceHappy hour won’t quench me nowNor scenes of a sexual natureSolo baths are a thing of the pastNo single second sacredIt’s the smell of your neck, it’s your gossamer hairAnd the way it sticks up at the crownIt’s your nails that claw at my souvenir skinThe sound of new words in your mouthIt’s the breadsticks you liberally feed to the dogsAnd your ceaseless pursuit of the stairsYour dungarees, your moccasinsYour wellingtons patterned with bearsIt’s charm and selfdom sproutingAnd the weight of your bones in my armsThe perpetual stickiness of your palmsYou are what brings me joy, my boy