He walks,
tall in a slouch,
black Elvis hair
like the music he always loved;
look how grown up he's become!
No more tracing-paper drawings
or muddy cheeks and knees.
Ducking his eyes,
hiding smoke behind a tree,
traces of the past touching his face like
shame and remembering-
then they go
and the shadows are back,
dark shapes that flit.
This change was too soon for me,
and it hit.