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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Hands in the Pockets

Being big is not easy.
Being small is not easy.
Life ruins us.
Makes our feet flat.
Cuts our hands.
Becomes a habit
and compels us to eat
too much,
and say no to peace,
until a light appears,
a swagger,
a confidence
that charms us into submission.

So it was
when Jackie came in the room.
A smile of maturity
on his three-year-old face.
Arrival.
Man about town.
Hands in his pockets,
in his red trousers.
Nonchalance.
Notice my hands,
his appearance said.
I’m a big kid now.
I’ve arrived.
He took his hands out
and put them in.
Peeking from the sides of his eyes,
I’m cool Papa, they said.
Inviting my approval.

Solemnly I asked,
what are you doing Jackie?
Hands in your pockets?
“Yeah,” he replied, walking past.
Big kid.
One of the gang.
I was charmed, impressed.
Being little is not easy I thought,
except for Jackie
who was big now,
on his way.
Being big is not easy I thought,
unless you know Jackie,
and how to be cool.

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