Something about the boy

.

We grew too teenage for our emotions,
mastered by the need to mate and bate. 
Always in the back seat, unable to speak
staring out at passed by windows,
beyond the long bonnet of 2 Litre Capri
he would always have someone on his knee.

I would listen to his confidence
as it slowed down, open-windowed to talk.
His words could sweep away 
loose strands of hair,
press a warm palm
to a reddening cheek,
convince the, I want to but slowly’s
and slightly lift the hems
of the come on then’s.

It took a certain type
to keep a body so tight 
that it looked good in any light.

I get to ride shotgun now
with opening lines like my wife and I.
He became a melted medallion
with slightly graying side burns.
His body still looks the same but shaded,
food traded for red wine 
and credit cards that get declined.

I used to see all the first steps
before they fell down his stairs
but that house is empty now.

Still I have to shake my head 
and acknowledge that when
his eyes found a way inside
and his words dressed you up 
in clothes never worn before,
then there would be a moment,
a primitive moment,
when even I would have opened my door.