What We're Born For

Mother worried more the more he grew,
as if the growth might never stop,
and he’d soar straight past Dad,
far beyond his home. A building
might he be at last, she feared,
and all the women it would house,
one yelling, “Wooo-hooo!” out a window
on the 11th floor, “I’m right near the top!”
she yelled to passersby. Mother’s neighbors
could overhear, as well as her sister, Jean.
The dirty garages at the bottom,
sound of engines,
where mother just wanted books,
and silence.
A noisy building, all in all,
much too strong much too tall.
And she hated all its shadow.
All she wanted was a baby in her arms,
and the dreams of how it all would be
Not this.
Not all the space for rent to who knows who.
Not so much city.

His father worried more about the baby and the beast,
how the yapping grows to growls.
What all had God planned
in muscle, teeth and claws,
and how big do you get
when you forget
this is not actually your house?
All he wanted, mostly, was himself,
though nothing near as ornery,
and no one near as big.

The boy grew unavoidably,
as if by nuclear accident.
Got slow mean, tortoise like,
just to have some defense.
He hurt his parents with all his pride,
in peace and tears,
shuffling off their fingertips,
out of dividing cell structure,
and his passion for the long and steady chase.