Marbles

Tell me

Does it embarrass you

That your son fancies lovely things?

He’s not a brick breaker

Like his father

Or his father before him

But he wears the seasons

On his fingers and toes

Occasionally

Should the mood arise

And he knows

That you’re a product of your era

And he cannot blame you

Nor is he inclined to

But the blood’s

A little thinner

Between you now

The heart has to

Pump a little harder

Now

The lashes sting

A little less

Now that they’ve become

The yolk to your egg

The routine

And he has all but

Lost his marbles

In a panic

He tries to collect them

Like little bits

Of a rolling sky

That used to be blue

For him

For me

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