Generation

Stout as an old oak he sighs with the
exasperation of one tiring of chiding the
unbridled energy of a child. The small
boy, in the very temporary charge of his
grandfather, charges belligerently
through the crowd of his playground
peers. Curiosity aroused, demands to
be lifted, squirming to the heights, to
dangle precariously, screaming soon
enough for immediate rescue.

Park squirrels and small dogs are
fodder for his animated, raucously
shrill shouts, rushing headlong
toward the wary animals. Enthusiasm
undaunted by their skillful avoidance
he turns to clambering precariously
on swings and slides, emphasizing
entitlement with emphatic shoves.

Distracted and attracted by each newly
noticed entitlement, the boy rushes hither
and yon, greybeard clumping behind,
breathlessly. Nothing seems to stump the
child. He is rude and unconcerned as only
a child can be who has never taken heed
of gentle reminders from loving parents
that he must be aware of others as they
are of him. There is nothing frail about
this child's overarching ego propelling
him onward to the invention of discovery.

His assured ownership of all he surveys
on the adventure of life, his pursuit of
adept manipulation of objects that pique
his curiosity endlessly consuming
until boredom suddenly strikes. He caroms
off onto another enticing tangent, the elderly
man admiring, wishing he could capture
the passion and the energy, forgetting
that at some distant time he did.