The Strangers They Become

Children disappear into the grownups  
they become, into adult chassis,  
behind facial hair, they vanish  
 
into ghost chasers, into bearers of lore  
and wisdom and agents of art  
we did not see written on the wall.  
 
The formerly frolicsome, children  
who ran about in pointless patterns,  
they disappear into frowns and causes
 
The trinkets and trophies sleep in drawers  
no longer drawn, fingers now beringed  
by graduations or chapel rites.  
 
The clingy and the ones you could leave  
alone rapt with planes and toy tea sets  
disappear into the unwell and paunchy  
 
or into the sylphlike and sinewy,  
into fathers and mothers shaped by  
blueprints we were not privy to.