Poetry

To question a parent (draft)

What would you do

if your son grew crooked?

With crooked thoughts

and crooked ways,

gnarled and twisted

as a malformed tree?

Would you recognise him

if his roots were swept away

by time, humble origins replaced

by woven finery, declaring to

all who might listen

that his reputation at

spiriting away prized objects

has earned him the name

he always sought?

A Master, yes.

A legend among thieves.

Would you ask him

to prove his tremendous skill?

Would you care?

Or could you simply take

him back, proud that he

accomplished all he wished?

Would you say, ‘My

Son is a man with

crooked thoughts and crooked ways,

yet never a body has he hurt.

With swift agility he takes

possessions, but they are only such.

My son, the Master Thief.

We may be different,

but I am okay with that.’

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