Some Son

He’s the start of a poem and the end of it too. He achieves types of feats we aspire to do.

Watch him at work -he’s perfecting the task. “Has he rocket for brain?” you will find yourself ask.

Inclined, while he plays, to spot where atoms land. Then when I look close, I see slingshots, not hands.

As gifted with talent beyond any you’d see. He’s a capital G. He’s a capital T.

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