This is called The Big Difference and any of you
who have had little boys you'll recognize the situation.
It all comes down to this, all eyes upon it everywhere
he goes.
The pizzle, Mr. peenie weenie.
Thing of many names he hasn't plumbed
the thousandfold functions of yet.
Not even the toes when first discovered
were so various in their knobby repetitions.
Mother doesn't have one, she's hiding it,
he says, and then insists.
Then moves it forward like a torpedo through the water,
trying to keep up with it himself.
Already and it's an obsession, more important than its uses,
without which nothing in his daily rounds
would have meaning as he waddles through the world
like a bowlegged cowboy with a brand new rope.
Stretching it, stroking it, telling its stories,
dragging it back and forth as though it
had an agenda of its own, not to be reasoned with.
Something of a burden lately like a baby brother.
His mother smiles and tries to yank his diaper up.
Surprise.
Such a little thing can become such a big event
in the supermarket as we hurry down
the aisle to catch him giggling, all of us.
The men nodding, the women with their full carts
stopped in amusement, him guessing what the fuss is all
about, watching it subside.
[LAUGHTER]