Boy

Five years feeding, oh
sweet love with needy fingers:
growing up is tough.

Slugs his way to school,
lagging; lugging a back pack:
breath laborious.

Our boy is crossing
over roads he doesn’t know:
sees but a hard place.

His angel arrives
hot with exasperation:
in a scratched black car.

Those troubles tumble
beneath his great potential:
plugging a sinkhole.

Down he falls, silent;
mum screaming Get Up, Get Up:
always a slowcoach!

Grit in our eyelids,
we kneel down at the roadside:
and the traffic slows.