My youngest son, the one

Evan, aged seven weeks -

His bedding's but begun.

John, long in breeks,

The fourteen-year-older,

Has inches foot and head,

No more before he's colder

At the ends of bed.

The recent one can reach

All his length

Or sidewise, and not touch yet,

Trying his strength.

My own ankles and old elbows

Obtrude in night air,

And I fear both boys

Will follow me out there.

Though I were one with Evan,

Or even with John,

No beds I know are long

For long sleeping on.

I lie awake and hear them

Go on growing.

I must not scare them.

But my bones are showing.