They are men now

or rapidly becoming men,

but in my heart's evergreen forest

they will always be my boys, the ones I

kind of

sort of

understood because I had been, in a different world,

one of them and I KNEW

how fierce their

desire and their

rage and their

sorrow and their

fear and their

uncertainty were and I KNEW

why they laughed in unleashed, unself-conscious

shockwaves at

dirty jokes and

stupid comments and

nasty putdowns and I KNEW

how hard it was to work up the nerve

to talk to that girl with the sweet face and nice legs,

and I KNEW

that I couldn't tell them

how much I loved them for that

because they wouldn't have understood.

And no matter how many beards they have grown and

children they have fathered and

burdens they have borne

and sorrows they have survived,

they will always be 16 or 17

and aspiring to more muscle than they had,

and burning for girls,

and dressed in rock t-shirts

or sports jerseys,

and not doing as well as they thought in hiding

from me and

(God forbid!)

from each other,

how vulnerable or in need

they actually were.