Poetry

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My little boy's room is a work of art,
You can tell it apart
from all other rooms in the house.
He has cans, wires, and batteries,
All of these he thinks he needs.
He has shells and rocks
in the drawer with his socks,
He can't part with a single thing.
He is an inventor you see,
What an imagination he has,
My little boy is very special to me.

As I peek into his room
at his table he sits,
Inventing something else once more.
All I can do is shake my head,
As I quietly shut his door.

Now he and his imagination have grown,
And he still keeps things that he'll need.
To me my little boy has shown,
An inventor he'll always be.

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