Time and Cages are Constructed

The child is the father of the man
who sees himself through a dictator’s eye.
There is nothing left in the room when the child
in him goes skipping down the road
toward an ice cream truck, wooden park,
or the future he assumes at the expense
of someone else’s playground.
The child is his shadow, not of creativity
and innocence but the guilt of favoring
pink, the shame of hating football,
and the disappointed indifference to anything
living in the patriarchal toolshed.

The child is the father of the man
who values his cage because it convinces
him that blue is more his color
and football isn’t that bad.

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