My son, the bruiser.
Tiny limbs thrust out,
powered by pistons.
Compact. Small muscles.
Delicate but strong.
Giggling and shrieking.
Sometimes I get hit.
Tickling and wrestling.
Young, but he’s feisty.
Always wants to fight.
Careful of his neck,
and of course his head.
Never is enough.
He’s insatiable.
Leaves me exhausted,
but he’s so sweet too.
Occasional bonks,
he tries not to cry,
a tough little guy.
Poetry