When I was young, they asked me what
I wanted to be when I grew up.
I was never sure, but I always replied
with some thing that I could defend with talent,
or minor interest. Perhaps lying, in prideful
contempt of my own indecision, an imprecision
of thought, they would say. I would not have
succumbed to such a dire fate at that time.

Now at long last, nearly grown, not yet so,
though seeing the young boys and girls
filled with joy at their lives unfolding,
I think I know, I think I'm sure of what
I want to be in my old age. Certainly odd
to realize such a thing (such a thing!),
in adolescence. Perhaps losing such a thing
has made it far more valued, without its presence
I feel ensnared in loyal clothes, betrothed
to that which begs my doom.

Being is not, for it is, nothing here is.
But could I be, could I be something forever,
I think I should like to be an eternal child.