“I didn’t even ask him for tips,”
He stammers after his first concert,
sat on his father’s broad shoulders in a dirty venue
cotton candy and popcorn and slushee
littered on the ground around them.
He was dressed in a Ghostbusters costume
as dirty as the floor of his room
because he refuses to take it off.Def Leppard and Poisen and Tesla,
bands fit for an eight year old teaching himself guitar.
Tiny hands wrapped around the neck,
slender fingers moving carefully
across strings too far apart
to follow the chords shown in the YouTube video.
“I didn’t even ask him for tips,”
He tells me the day after,
sleepy eyes and wearing his tour teeshirt souvenir,
a new wardrobe staple
hoping to convince me
of his smarts,
independence,
“all of it.”

The little boy who learned to read by speaking to Siri,
who builds towers of blocks and sticks and Minecraft bricks.
Who writes me stories of superheroes and zombies,
and emails me playlists,
and blurry photos of his dog.

I ask him if he’ll throw me a guitar pick when he’s famous.
His eyes grow as big
as the crowds he imagines coming to see him.
“Right now I only have one.”