Please don’t rush,
O you of the rose-gold hair.
Your face keen and shining,
You watch every bite I take,
Following fork from
plate to mouth, plate to mouth,
Your eyes a deep blue plea of sky,
begging to be like me.
Please wish for something nobler.
I, for one, will miss
the fat pink spider of your hand
squeezing my nose and pulling my hair
when you have grown into someone
who will no longer fall asleep
on my chest.
O, you loud roaring boy of a man,
a while longer.
Don’t race the time to heartbreak.
It will come