Outdoor concert on a lovely evening in June
children running back and forth absorbed
in everchanging games, rolling down the
grassy hill, ignoring for the most part the
genius of Brahms, Massenet, Sousa,
pulling at my heart to bend over those
pages of my own sons’ childhoods and
even mine, so very long ago.
That one little boy, in a sweater vest,
necktie, no shirt, looking somehow
French–did he insist on that tie
in the way of headstrong little boys
knowing what he likes, being strictly
his own person, impervious as yet
to the dull demands of convention?
How now is the boy who, years ago
at my sons’ preschool wore a Superman
costume for days on end demanding
that he be called Superman or only
in a pinch Clark Kent? Has his fierce
own self remained true and steadfast
through the years unwavered by the
insistent voices that call day in day out?
