Something about the boy

We grew too teenage for our emotions,
mastered by the need to mate.
I was in the back seat, unable to speak
too shy for eye contact, only watching
beyond the long bonnet of 2 Litre Capri,
he would always have someone on his knee.
 
I would listen to his confidence
as it slowed down, open-windowed to talk.
His words could sweep away
loose strands of hair,
press a cool palm
to a reddening cheek,
slowly convince the, I'm not sure
and quickly lift up the hem
of the come on then.
 
It takes a certain type
to keep a body so tight
that it looks good in any light.
 
I get to ride shotgun now
with opening lines like my wife and I.
He became a melted medallion
with slightly graying side burns.
His body still looks great  
but the lines are shaded,
food traded for red wine
and credit cards that get declined.
 
I used to see all his first steps
before they fell down his stairs
but that house is empty now.
 
Still I have to shake my head
and acknowledge, that when
his eyes found a way inside
and his words dressed you up
in clothes never worn before,
then there would be a moment,
a primitive moment,
when even I would have opened my door.