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      November 7, 2010AdamPhillip Sterling

      The problem was
      he’d never been a boy,
      never had a mother
      to mother him

      or punish him
      for teasing the cat
      (spun dizzy on a bar
      stool), or using

      the Lord’s name
      in vain, or leaving
      wads of chewing gum
      in the pockets

      of his corduroys,
      gumming up
      the good laundry
      once too often;

      he’d never played
      soldier, explorer,
      Cowboys-and-Indians,
      or even baseball,

      was never picked
      last, odd-man-out,
      and made to stand
      deep in right field,

      near the orchard
      where girls
      from down the road
      would hide, giggling,

      and every so often
      chuck bruised fruit
      at him
      because he was cute.

      from #24 - Winter 2005