Well-dressed sons

of well-to-do fathers

in navy blazers 

and khaki pants, 

 

miniature men

strutting around 

in someone’s image 

and it’s not God’s.

 

A stately sight,

these junior gentlemen 

gliding in the shadows 

of gentlemen, 

 

like putty 

in a parent’s hand, 

and we’ll hear

how it hardens

 

into family 

as promise or curse,

or founded on

stone or sand,

 

something to 

stand up for

or up to

or just stand.

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