Ian was an only son,
Tethered by his mother's eyes.
He had a head of curls,
The envy of my sisters.
His skin shone like pearl onions,
His shirt buttoned like a zipper;
His shorts were knee high
With creases sharp as glass,
That matched his upper half.
His oxfords polished blue-black.
He stood on our sidewalk,
Looked indifferently at our house,
Looked skittish as a mouse
At enticing cheese.
As he approched our walkway,
Her eyes snapped.