"don't like anybody" he says
refusing to play with the other kids
standing next to me
piling the rocks and sticks
one by one
adding a seed or two
"don't like anybody" he repeats
when the girl in the green frilly dress
touches his rocks and sticks and seeds
then he shrieks, he pushes,
he cries
I hold him I tell him to be nice
"don't like people" he shouts
when the boy in the blue pants and white shirt
takes his front loader truck away
I hold him I ask him to share
"don't like anybody" he reminds me
I should've known better
He knows what he likes and
what he doesn't: rocks, dandelions,
seeds, pasta, trucks, figs, these he likes.
Baths in the tub with rubber frogs and
yellow ducks, these he likes.
Taking a nap he doesn't.
Wearing socks he doesn't.
He likes blueberries and cherries,
goldfish crackers, lollipops.
He likes dreidles, sponges.
Stickers he adores.
He knows what he likes and
what he doesn't. He likes his nookies
and his blanky. He needs them to sleep.
His blue eyes, long eyelashes, dark
blond hair I like.
His cheeks red, his toes and fingers
I like.
I don't like it when he says:
"don't love nana anymore".
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