A mother's right to reply, to a teenage son

I don't always like
the way you look at me.
I like the way you look.
I don't always like
the way you talk to me.
I like the way you think.
I don't like the way
you don't talk to me.
I like your mind,it's sharpness,
it's acuity, it's breadth and depth.
But not when you aim it
so accurately at my life.
I shrivel a little, a shiver
of premonition, the years
to come. You grow, and
I do not complain, your
thoughtlessness is my
shame; to want more.