All those boys
are not from my town;
but their hearts
beat in the blue
of my eye and were all
mine for three
seconds as I drove past.
All those boys
never know what
to do with themselves,
except to believe
in Mary and Dad's
Oldsmobile
and the Missouri weeds.
All those boys
are ancient;
their mouths
swallow whole
world. Their bikes lay
in wait like bruised horses,
unplugged lightning.
All those boys
had grown like kittens,
too big for their mothers'
belief. They awoke
mornings to find more miles
in their legs, more inches
to their brains.
All those boys
are only in my body,
waiting inside
my eggs, sunning themselves,
whistling against a dark
for which they don't
have the eyes.