The boy next to me
eats from a bag of fast food
without looking up
from his phone.
I who does not exist
now am free
to aim my camera
at his long curls
My thoughts simple with wonder:
When did he become this new thing?
A little man at age 14
now precisely wears those jeans.
For years the boy says, I love you
every time he leaves the room, ever since
the parents dropped from sight
while he crawled like a crab
across the sand.
Last summer I saw the man coming when
his sentences ran shorter, words flew out
I'd never heard, he hummed along
to Lil this and Lil that
and his hair styles grew
more interesting.
I was not awake that first time
he crossed the border
without me to his new life.
The shorebirds call out
from the Bay
--more beings I cannot understand--
And I hear a small voice,
a distant foghorn at dusk,
I love you grandma.
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