Every muscle in his body
is made of no. He is lock.
He is bolt. He is chain.
He has swallowed the key
so no one can reach it.
I try to fashion a skeleton key
out of love, but can’t find
a place where it will fit.
I hand it to him. He throws it.
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This poem should preface every book title that tries to teach parents to deal with their teens. A lovely abrupt three words at the end.