a manicured lawn, not for running but bragging,
from rooms enough to fit two boys
(my house is bigger than my imagination).
In my house, love is:
groaning shelves of abandoned toys,
knickerbocker glory and packaged joy -
increasing waste, increasing waist.
It’s dams which crocodile tears will always break.
It’s that’s-my-boys and doting, blind defense.
Love means never being wrong.
In my house, there is no imagination,
save that of darting eyes,
seeing and concluding in the same breath.
No fancy but the funhouse mirrors in my mother’s eyes,
persuading her I’m just a growing boy.
There’s no illusion but the lies we tell ourselves.