Because I wanted to be a “real good boy,”

I opened wide each time my Mother gave me

my spoon of yellow syrup. I grew coy

about the nasty rush, smiling “so bravely.”

Because I wanted to be a “calmer boy,”

I learned to like the way my breathing slowed

while I dawdled getting dressed, then messed with toy

soldiers and blocks I’d never quite outgrown.

Because I wanted to be a “happy boy,”

I grabbed a window seat on the Bluebird bus,

using my wide-eyed stupor as a ploy

to save me from the views of other boys.

In class, I “settled down” like sediment,

learning to bury sadness that “made no sense.”