The poem
only exists on your breath.
In the rise and fall of your telling.
It will be another 40 years
before I see it written in a book
...and tears come unbidden.
I a little boy
crying for a little boy blue
who tells his toys to wait for him
until the morning comes...
but being good Victorian melodrama
the little boy dies.
Still the toys wait...
for the touch of his hand
...that will never come.
In the real live boy
that I am
there isn't a dry eye
and I cry and cry the house down.
You kiss
