Little Punk
"Stop running," I call,
And you wave over your shoulder
That measures five years
And three feet
From the ground
And charge on,
Fearless,
Your shoestrings fluttering
In time with your tutu.
(Those boots,
I must say,
Black and thunky,
With neon laces.
Do you know that you look
Like my past blasted,
Your anarchy not blazed
On patches and jackets?
It is only
That you do not yet know
What anarchy costs).
I call you back
And make you stand before me
As I tie those bright laces
"Isn't that better?"
I ask,
And your "Yeah"
With one hand sassy
On a cocked hip,
Is a three second sigh,
A concession to propriety.
One day, little punk,
You will know
That I loved you enough
That I would not see you fall.
I know that you will grow
To fill my combat boots.