nurturing smiles, hugs, hi-fives
feel few and far between
stern cheeks and insecure eyes asking,
“What kind of a Man will you grow up to be?
and what, my son,
will that tell the world about Me?”

firstborn sons follow faded
treasure maps folded by years
hidden in the
bottom of rusting red tool boxes
pockets of cracked leather briefcases
folds of rainbow-colored sashes
stacks of paper spilling on the floor
clank of ice cubes washing away long days
searching for surnames firstnames
my name
unsure whether X marks the spot
or the point of departure

first born sons carry
legacy like birthmarks
family name resting
squarely on shoulders
subtle pressure to
march in cadence
the silent drum
my father’s footsteps
ahead of me