Almost five, he’s a grubby, bruised volcano,
He erupts in the supermarket, the swimming pool, the playground.
I dodge his angry lava flow and try to control the explosion
And if I can’t, I try to hold him tight, try to give him the words
He needs to cool him down.
Are you angry? Are you sad? What would make it better?
Even when he has all the words, even when he knows better, and keeps it under his shifting plates like I do, I hope he always has someone to do this for him.
What else is love?