The school reports my teen man
missing again. I wonder
with this new bullet of hurt?
Peace with him now as brief
as a traffic stop before
the next bad news.
Is there any use to sit
on the edge of his bed to talk?
Or to grab his stack of curls and pull
him to the floor like my mother
did to mine?
In the beginning, he never disobeyed
or snarled or cursed.
I thought it such a blessing
but now I ask the thin air all around,
was that a clue I missed--
some kind of secret suffering?
Who knows why his future
shows up like this—the days
of sweet behavior giving way to vaping
and mating in the back seat.
Surely that good-kid blood still
flows through his veins.
All that light of heaven he
once shared freely
he may share again—
tho less evenly, less often—coerced
by the dictatorship of
life.
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