A boylike steeple, block on top of block,
grounded on green carpets, built well,
rising from the floor grandpa's still trying to sell.
A tiny totem, stacks of r's and i's,
a basswood column just your height,
cracked eggs etched on the side.
You of indelicate hands, palms clapping
over the last bite of an unsyruped waffle,
watchful and grasping of your mother's handful,
crackers of any sample, the goldfish or the animal.
Lacking building skills, when you turn you will
laugh with head thrown back, breath in gasps,
in joy and energy, you will destroy this tower.
Then you will be six foot three, hiding
underneath a tattered hoodie, something
like daddy's beard thin across smooth youth.
Dexterity of adolescence in your hands,
the choices and piles of written demands,
the pressures of pretty girls in fashionable
curls, and the speed of knowledge and sin,
building desires to become block, to fit in.
Then, encompassed by the asherahs
of entertainment, bombarded by contentment,
bound by green papers, all these idols stacked around.
Then, in infant holiness, knock them down son,
knock them down.
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