Sitting on an expensive chair,
\nbare feet not touching the floor,
\nfeeling like the little boy I am and always will be,
\neven after I’m gone.
\nThere will be no man gone.
\nOnly The Boy.
\nThat is what my mother called me.
\nEverything was “For The Boy.”
\nAt the grocery store,
\nshopping for my favorite microwavable breakfast treat,
\nwhen she found the product sold out she
\nissued a plaintive entreaty,
\nto all concerned:
\n“It’s for The Boy.”
\nResponses were swift.
\n“It’s for The Boy?
\nOh, here, take mine.”
\nOthers produced coupons for free breakfast treats,
\nredeemable wherever said product was sold.
\nEveryone understood The Boy,
\nthose Two Words communicating relevance,
\nimportance, sanctimonious seniority.<\/p>\n
I cannot let my feet touch the ground.
\nAir circling the bottoms feels too sweet,
\nthe breath of a lover exploring every inch of me
\nas I do the same for her.
\nI feel the breath of her skin,
\nbreath of small breezes cast by her motions.
\nEven her thoughts breathe.
\nEvery piece of her inhales, gasps, tastes.
\nWe joke about our first moments together,
\nin her doctor’s office,
\nhow she got me naked immediately,
\nfaster than any woman I’d ever known.
\nIt is still that way.
\nImmediate sex.
\nMechanical sex.
\nMotionless. Hyperventilated. Suffocating.
\nAll of it for The Boy.<\/p>\n
She showers loudly.
\nI touch my feet to the floor,
\nsatisfied by the sounds of her
\nwashing me out of her hair.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Sitting on an expensive chair, bare feet not touching the floor, feeling like the little boy I am and always will be, even after I’m gone. There will be no man gone. Only The Boy. That is what my mother called me. Everything was “For The Boy.” At the grocery store, shopping for my favorite […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[23],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-28475","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poems","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/paumAn-7ph","jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wsbj.com\/sorabji\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28475","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wsbj.com\/sorabji\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wsbj.com\/sorabji\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wsbj.com\/sorabji\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wsbj.com\/sorabji\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=28475"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/wsbj.com\/sorabji\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28475\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":28487,"href":"https:\/\/wsbj.com\/sorabji\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28475\/revisions\/28487"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wsbj.com\/sorabji\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=28475"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wsbj.com\/sorabji\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=28475"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wsbj.com\/sorabji\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=28475"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}