The stray ballpoint, a gun.
Umbrella, a sword.
the air gets a roundhouse kick.
Is this typical “boy” I want to ask.
Or just typical of this boy?
Past bedtime he’s enacting battles,
strategies elaborate as chess rules.
Finally, he crash-lands beside me,
seeks my shoulder, slurs “Mommy . . .”
I stroke his sweat-damp hair
until, shifting position, he sleeps,
arms thrown back in surrender.