Ambition: For Bunny

His, at the age of six, was to be Zorro.
     Black hat and mask, a sword held in reserve—
     He’d pull them from their closet pile, then swerve
Big figure eights around the houses, borrow
     Whatever came to hand (they needed nerve

Those daylight raids), and take some puerile stabs
     At self-disclosure—monogram, make Z’s.
     The mystery of stray baseball bats in threes
Puzzled clean lawns. Likewise, both up for grabs
     Wet laundry and mere mud left scattered keys

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To who he was inside. He doesn’t try
     These days; time’s shorter now, and he’s got less
     And less to hide. His love’s his best success:
She thinks there’s more to him than meets the eye.

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