Predicting the Future

Naked boys, like bullets of cute
dart everywhere at once
An age of modesty comes later
He’ll trade in pastels for punctuality
We’ll say he’s maturing well
not like an egg, but a flower
Soft, red petals atop a thorny stem
its sharpness coming with growth, hurt
when sadness visits, the kind that lingers
into the next morning
changes the taste of lunch
and cradles dinner

His beauty and fragrance will return
but the thorns will last
His mother’s face will tell a similar story
each wrinkle an era of concern that cannot be willed away
She will soon discover her little boy is six foot tall

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