I like the way my young boy stutters.
I love the drawn out words he utters.
He forces me to stop. and. listen.
to put down trivial things I’m doin’.
The most important thing I do all day
is really hear what he has to say.
‘Cuz my boy’s so far surpassed
This black n’white grey-scale grey matter cast
that I’ve for so long called my brain.
His dreams fall on my ears like rain.
And, like rain, the drama’s at the start
when the black clouds gather and the floodgates part.
So, too, my boy commands attention
commencing sentences with pure intention.
His intention’s strong enough to cause
his lips and tongue to seem, well, flawed
(to others, maybe, not to me-
my boy’s talking sets ME free).
But if I could see in front of me
the creations of my world of sleep
I don’t think I’d care if I pronounced
exactly correctly the magic I announced.