The lit up stage is way down front
the last row’s cramped, no leg spacemaybe an afterthought just meant
for children, or those who came in too late
to find a spot in the coveted aisles
and I should fit, but I don’t;the names are called of each child
and each one carries something to flaunt -
deepens a father’s applause, a mother’s smile
some things my son you’ll learn from books
others you won’t find on your pageyou’ll have to go elsewhere to look
the speeches are made on the stage
the awards given, small and huge
markers of childhood, and coming of age
a sibling sits filming an event
with shaky hands and a steady pridea polished routine draws to an end
then you are called to collect your prize
you walk down, gawky angled, unkempt
hair spiked, beautiful innocence
looking back once to catch my eyes.
