His Teen's Waywardness!

    

Scared he looked, alone he stood

 Reflected his visage deep worries.

Furnished in the old man’s mind

Qualms, his years of experience.

“The reason what would be

For this little mind to fret?

His gait and garb; poor not,
but moneyed,” he thought.

"What pricks you,  need solace,

 A solace, comforting soul?”

 Spurted swiftly his long-used tongue

Stepping friendly to the boy.

 A bizarre look was his counter,

But, upon the old man’s wiles,

 Responded  wistfully a little after,

 “Affluent if only I had been. ….

 A destitute, an orphan having

No kin, a hapless boy, I am.

My life, an adopted product

 Hurts me and wounds me.

 They reared me, nurtured me and

Schooled me, fine, but …,” in tizzy he was.

“Real parents, cannot be foster ones ;

In search of my kin, I eloped.”

Captured things the learned mind,

 Fully involved himself in the matter.

 From the titbits of the boy's talk arose

The details of his parenthood.

“ Listen, son, may your parents be 

of veritable, foster, or step type.

The amount of love they showered

counts more than what they are.

A boon it is, enjoying a gifted life;

Brought you here your wayward teen.

This ease and comfort of this sort, none

 Would you have been blessed with!

So son, some gratitude you should have,

 Go and gratify your parents’ yen,

They will fall in grief; reverse fleeing

 And wash ashore your mind’s illness.”

“O, if not espoused, suffered much

 I would  have, no care and concern,

With nil essentials; prostrate

 I must at my parents’ feet,” preferred he.