The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Richard Lee Zuras
He trolleys in lamenting his book-bag—shakes,
drops the innumerable pictographs, splays
them, conking the floor like paralytic weights,
as if our Maine bungalow were
his own private—“Mr. Sipe keeps telling our whole grade
‘There’s a rogue soprano hiding out in the altos.’”
There is a certain hokiness when my son imitates
his teachers—an affection not lost on either party.
He is vamping now . . . .
A tuft of auburn hair will not find
agency (his head blossoming, rooting, inside and out).
I coil the curl with my fingertips. He is just now
13. He no longer woos me.
His impertinence startles him
and I stow his brief attentiveness like a
Krugerrand, fatuously, into my pocket.
Soon his voice, too, will be hijacked by the gods
and devils of arduous hormones. For now,
a wanton partition.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication