The Boy

The Boy

The Boy

Mizzling is his missile into my head:
it lands and cracks me open,
I can’t think or do a thing until he stops.
As soon as I scoop his warm fleshy form
into the fit of mine, he is content,
flashing me his flirty grin,
turning his pretty head to watch
whatever his eye can catch.
He trails his hand in the sink’s warm suds,
pulling out a wooden spoon; next,
he grabs the towel rail, marvelling
at the smooth pole twisting in his hands,
pulling on it like a grown boy
testing a bar’s potential swing.
He snuggles to my neck,
fingers reaching down to anchor mine.
Thus held he would be sanguine
in the face of a maniac or hissing snake.

I am his warm home hammock;
his viewing tower; his lunch;
his cosying dawdle; his work-out station;
his toting and doting slave.
I bear him like an elephant
carrying a brahmin potentate,
I suffer him to bite and and smite
the nipple that feeds him,
I give him my finger to gnaw
like a puppy worrying a shoe.

I wipe each pouch and crevice
free of the mustard poo he oozes,
I let his little feet
beat on my belly like a drum,
his weight hang from a grip of my hair.

He is my wily explorer,
my charming conqueror –
Who would have thought
I would finally submit?