The look he has is youthful
And the cap is tilted back;
The face is slender, wistful,
A boy sent to attack.
 
My children in another room
Are talking with their friends
Of who likes whom and what
Comes next, and how to make amends.
 
Across a corner of the frame
Is draped a purple band
He never saw, but Grandma
Left imprinted on her hand.
 
My young son runs in, all afresh
With news from our back lawn;
I hear the crack and feel the burn;
The ache goes on and on.