My son,
A growing young man,
His hair combed so that he can impress a special girl,
The smile beaming off of his youthfully round face,
A beacon of joy,
Rose well and proper to never talk back,
He steps out the door with pride in his stride.
His date,
A glowing, radiant beauty,
Earned by showing her there’s more to boys
Than all the knuckleheads and goofballs.
His ex,
Regretful of breaking his heart,
Still contacts him about when they’ll see each other,
Knocks on the door sometimes and runs away.
My daughter,
Still an angel in my eyes,
Hair flowing as she steps down the staircase,
Her dress the same bright, baby blue as her eyes.
Her date,
Isn’t allowed to look anywhere except eye contact with me,
Keeps his hands behind his back and away from her.
Her ex,
In the wheelchair from when he broke my daughter’s heart,
Cannot give police any suggestions as to who broke his legs.