To my son, @ 13

Verbals, and your Dad’s bands;
Laguna friends, Magic cards,
which like most teens you
hoard and are defined by.
Fill your insistent life.

Dictatorial gadgets, Math 5-5-5,
AP and soliloquies.
Unexpected triumphs and,
Bold, brash Ateneans mount
an offensive in your shy, sensitive soul.
Fill your troubled nights.

The feminine name you bear
like a curse, and with a smirk feel
you have to explain away: the
product of pseudo-creativity of a mother
you also carry on your shoulder,
Aeneas-like, like an obligation.


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