The art-loving boy called X (for Xavier)
nine years old, glasses, wheatstraw hair,
came by again and again to chat
speaking each time of his father but
where was the mother I wanted to know
(dreaded to know) of whom no word
was ever spoken. One couldn’t escape
noticing his liking to chat with a
motherly old soul and perfect stranger.
One had to wonder. One hoped
for the best noting that he did seem
a happy boy, a self-directed boy,
affable, good head on two shoulders.
One hoped. One wanted so much already
for the likable, sweet, art-loving nine years old
boy who went by the name of X.