My Boy

My boy turned a page trying to prove
That ever since his bottles and spirit
He had grown old and sufficient,
Like the pages of my binder.

“What the hell do you think
You’re doing? Captivating? ”
I said to the poor old boy,
A purloiner of books and old toys.

“I have my word and my work, father! ”
The boy retorted from his voice of
Slight laughter, with rain on his brush
And rain on his paint, the two possessions.

I couldn’t see you there with artistic endeavour,
I thought to myself, but weirdest intelligence
Gave the rain a doubt, and so the life became rain,
Still rain, and more rainy days to come.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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