I can see your end, tough kid. Oh so, glib.
You’ll pick a fight, thump your mighty tiny chest,
find yourself arrested. That mouth will get you
an ankle bracelet in your house, or maybe
a solid punch from some drunk’s big fist
or a slice from a knife that puts you on a slab.
So sad. Too bad.
Hamartia, dude. That fatal flaw hot temper, you know?
Choices you make now could change how it goes.
Being tough is rough.
Choose a more mellow groove!
poem-to the bantam rooster October 28, 2022
poem- Adrian October 20, 2013
Adrian, muscles rippling
and glistening from summer sun,
as the girls grip
their nails in their fists, wishing.
Adrian, head emerging from car engine
wringing greasy hands,
and grinning a greeting,
reaching for his shirt,
as the girls glide in, sniffing;
whiffing at pheromones
that hint of moaning, groaning
atonement.
Good girls watching as
Adrian gets ready
for Bible study.
Baby boy June 14, 2013
Baby boy,
blue blanket tucked into your chin,
Thumb in in mouth, jaw moving tch-tch-tch-tch.
Perfect tiny face,
an animated melon
beneath the blanket,
immersed in the sweet scent of diaper powder.
I blink.
Baby boy,
Body stretched across the mattress,
Toes draped over the edge,
blankets splayed across your waist,
whiskers bristling your chin.
Mouth agape: GRZZZZ-GRRRRZ-GrrrrrrZ
in the pungent scent of sweat.
Baby boy.
.
.
.
(Even when they’re men, their mothers see the babies they once held in their arms.)
Shawn L. Bird 