Wyatt at 7

Mom, did you toot?
Your breath smells like diarrhea

Mom, you’re so beautiful–
I love your eyes
your hair
your mustache

You treasure
you downright    joy of a boy
with your pants too short
and backwards
showing off your bony ankles
and your bright white socks
in those ratty black shoes you love
because they don’t have laces

Your hair is too long on top and
puffed up–
I call it your Lyle Lovett look

You’ve got lunch
stuck to your cheek
and funny grown up man teeth
gigantic in your baby face

I’m getting so tall, are I?!
Mom, you’re beloved to me
My heart is tender to yours–
Is yours tender to mine?

Yes, dearest boy,
my heart is indeed, indeed
tender
to
yours