He's in the corner of a tent
legs curled up under himself
bony arms sticking out of a baggy t-shirt
a blush on his cheeks, under the brown freckles
like the blush on a peach, showing he’s been in the sun.
He’s sullen, slovenly
probably wearing the same clothes
the soiled t-shirt, loose black sweat pants
for the last two or three days; sleeping in them
hiking in them, spilling food on them, rolling in the
dirt and grass as he's tussling with his four or five tent mates.
He’s eleven years old and
their leader, the dominant one
and he knows it, likely for the first time.
He’s angry with me
because I’m supposed to be there
I’m always there on his school outings
but this time he’s being supervised by some feeb preacher.
He’s trying to be mad at me
whatever’s wrong is my fault
but when his wide brown eyes
fix on me from under his brown tousle
of hair not combed since he left for the woods
I sense only the beauty of his need for me, for me
to share in his adventures, for me to witness his new status
to share in his delight of discoveries and for me to help explain the world.
He’s growing up right before my eyes
and he wants to share his pride in this, yet
still allow him to be a little boy, still be his nurturer
still his protector, but now from a little more distance.
jimmy shaker writes this
