My son has a marvelous habit of telling

strangers that this very day is his birthday
and they, confused, can’t fathom the truth

but trust his nodding smile, congratulate 
the rascal on reaching a mighty fine age
although sometimes they do seem surprised by the notion

that a boy so strange and acting childlike
could be ‘eighteen!’ but if you reckon
that every day is a birthday, he’s actually
at an age over six thousand and five hundred;

older than anyone else on the planet
(that is, according to conventional wisdom).
He had a chat with Socrates,
shared a drink with an under-aged Jesus,
bounced in a chariot with Boedacia

and learnt his marvelous habits from Merlin;
like telling stories, beading the eye,
smiling, messing, challenging, pushing,
being himself, parading the fool
and testing whether magic is happening:
my son has a marvelous habit of telling.

John Lavan’s most recent poem to appear here was There is a love (July 2010).