Standing before me, smiling, tall
Donning brand-name, second-hand clothes,
You acted like the Prince of the ball;
Fancy hair gelled, one small finger in your nose.
Sipping on a Shirley Temple, grinning at the lasses
While we waited for a table to free,
You refused to part with your dad's sunglasses,
And mesmerized the restaurant, your Muddy, and me.
Now staring at a stage of performers,
Your look of awe is the stuff poems are made of.
Your Ada had mist in the corners
Of eyes overcome with a grandfather's love.
This is not a tribute to that starry, magical eve.
It's not a poem of your boyish wonder.
It is an imprint of the mark that you leave.
It is a poem of the spell you put me under.