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You, a boy who can’t usually find his own shoes,
who has come home with the same exasperated message
about not working to your potential
written on so many report cards over the years
that I ought to have it printed on t-shirts, or business cards,
or your forehead.
You, who can play music,
and write songs and sing them–
A way you forged for yourself:
Desire, practice, practice, and beauty.
You, who can choose to charm
most anything you want from the world
which shakes its head and hands it over,
with a smile.
You, who carries all that weighty potential so lightly—
like sun inside a loose-lidded box.

4 responses »

  1. Based on this poem, and the previous one, I’d say you have a pretty cool son. 🙂

  2. I tried to comment on this post, but I’m not sure if it worked….


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