My Boy

Not pissing alone or tits of my own
Or rushes of nicotine
Not eating past 7 or sleeping past 6
Or free licence to dream

Not nights away or the cinema
Or cause for a made-up face
Jeans that fit don’t do it for me
And neither does personal space

Happy hour won’t quench me now
Nor scenes of a sexual nature
Solo baths are a thing of the past
No single second sacred

It’s the smell of your neck, it’s your gossamer hair
And the way it sticks up at the crown
It’s your nails that claw at my souvenir skin
The sound of new words in your mouth

It’s the breadsticks you liberally feed to the dogs
And your ceaseless pursuit of the stairs
Your dungarees, your moccasins
Your wellingtons patterned with bears

It’s charm and selfdom sprouting
And the weight of your bones in my arms
The perpetual stickiness of your palms
You are what brings me joy, my boy