His baby teeth are going.
I see for the first time
he is getting too big for the slides.
His hugs are gangly
no longer fitting on my lap
Stride Rite soles leave chalk marks on my legs
I didn't have you for seven + 9
I thought six-and-a-half would be enough.
"I grew you in my heart"
I feel ripped-off
those years I didn't really have you
screaming and stimming
fighting like a caged animal,
to clinging like a frightened animal.
When did you turn into my baby?
I turn with wind-blown hair
you are leaving already.
Note: The title of my post is a play on two phrases: "Sleven" is the slang for the quick-mart 7/11. Blink and he's 7, blink again and he'll be 11. And he'sleavin'.