Pinto

Trouser pockets
hold the stuff of little boy dreams--
or at least his games.
.
An old fuse,
a lock with no key,
length of rubber,
bit of wire,
the brush to polish father's shoes.
.
Tied atop a beat-up wire car,
spilling out of a plastic bag,
stacked in the dirt,
or scattered through the grass.
.
He is king of this world.
mechanic, engineer, motocycle driver,
setting out on great adventures.
.
Piece of bread makes him rich,
more so when there's margarine,
and oh,
how he swaggers.
.
Hundred shillings could buy the world--
or at least a sweet
from Maama Molly's shop.
.
Growing too fast,
he fights for his freedom,
but always wanders home for tea--
and a bath that he despises--
asleep most nights before we take supper.
.
Wants to go to school,
to march like brothers and playmates,
to wear shoes and long trousers,
to master the art of number and letter,
but not til next year.
.
Three years old.
He sucks his fingers still
and sometimes kisses my lips when we cuddle.
.
Pockets cannot possibly contain
the magic of little boy dreams.