This morning, after ritual reminding,

To landscape garden your

Pulled-through-a-bush-backwards

Look.

You replied

"I think my hair is fine."

From my fatherly throne,

I look up to you my son.

(You gesture to your nose, that it's quite the smelly one.)

I see you in a different light,

Standing there upright, shoulders back.

You,

Being on the cusp of manhood,

Somehow passed me by.

Will I miss the rest of you?

How much have I let you down?

Will you one day shake my hand,

In greeting,

On the street?

And ask of me

Why I didn't teach you more, 

Than just the noble art

Of clownery?