Ryan at Eight

I am about to leave for London, and will be away from this blog for the coming two weeks. I will admit that today's poem is a repeat. The grandson in the poem is about to turn 18, and will be off to University this fall.

Ryan at Eight

Backlit with the wonders

of his world - inchworms, trains,

stink bugs, fresh rain -

his open face

disappears in increments

as boys in upper grades slip him

streetwise wisdom

on the playground, snigger profanity

and swear sotto voce.

Some of this he shares with his Gran.

"They say Tom's mom is a lush."

A frown frames his question.

"What exactly is that?"

Then the worried follow-up, "If you drink

wine at dinner or beer in the pub,

is that too much?"

But his grownup mien,

the one without a smile, doesn't hold

in London's Underground. He leans

toward the tunnel

eyes alive as sparks on the rail,

little boy grin as he spots a headlight

advancing through the lampblack,

a rush of wind ruffling his hair.

I blink and a young man waits down the line.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor