Small Chat

I have no experience of small boys, I tell my son,
driving him home. Well only you. He sits there pertly.
They lose things, he chirrups. You must know that.

Encouraged by this opening, I warm-up
a mother’s inside info.
So why did Jago kick Beastly? I quiz and,
why did Ant fix his key-fob to his fly?
His silence counts each snowflake;

he is as secret as Switzerland.
His strength gathers itself, cracks open
his shoes, skitters through his jacket’s seams.
Only his hands furl, last token of infancy,
these he bunkers in his pockets.