His heart opens wide,

a needy human being

hung up on wanting.

His pulse beats faster

than Lance winning

the Grand Prix.

It was different as a kid;

he got anything he wanted:

Trylon and Perisphere,

his home all summer,

a Red Ryder BB gun,

Lionel trains, balsa wood

airplane kits. A corncob pipe

with corn silk for tobacco,

a Lone Ranger cowboy suit.

When he caught measles,

mumps and chicken pox,

the balm of mother’s hand

was always there.

Fragile, a life-long panic attack,

he wilts without a reassuring touch

or the soporific of self-medication.

No one will ever love him

like mother, who held him

as if he was more precious

than a bar of gold bullion.

She always knew what he wanted before he did.