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Safety MAG
I'm seventeen.
But even so,
Papa takes my hand
Whenever we cross the street.
He laughs because
I complain
And stumble off the curb,
Feigning senility as if lost
Without the pressure
Of My Hand.
I'm seventeen.
But I know
That I will always be
The infant
He carried like a football.
And even though I
Growl and Scowl and
Say I'm Too Old
For this,
I Clutch His Hand.
I'm seventeen.
But I can't
Complain when Papa reaches
For me at the curb.
Because even though
I'm too Big
For a football,
I never want to lose
The Safety
In His Hand.
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