The Young Men

There’s a waft, nae ozone
of testosterone in the house,
while it's been brewing for some time
I've still no idea how it got here

Last I looked I was conquering
the lone parent hustle, double-troubled
separating baby socks into shared pairs,
their feet now the length of unbent tent pegs

Closer than two coats of paint
the young men experience bumfluff
and morning wood,
mortified together, alternately

The young men hotel in my rooms,
connect app-ly between walls
and try to outdo one another in eating the food
my graft stacks in the fridge

But they’re buzzing the night,
off to see their first gig
—Gerry Cinnamon,
tickets from the uncle
his brother, not mine

Decked out in Nicce tees
and wee adolescent man bags
over their shoulders,
bucket hats picked up on the way
a horse’s head in the bed
of any lassie who tries to corrupt

Off they go shouting back
Mum, you’re a belter,
my beautiful hormonal
diamonds in the rough