Every Son

 by jeanne rené

Marty Jr.

 

His eyes were soft
A careless light blue
Hair just plain brown
Tossed about his shoulders
And swept across his face
In the morning’s flurry

He crossed over a lane of traffic
With baited anticipation
Looking, so in character
Vintage, dirty way-baggy jeans
Dragging under his boots
Fatigue jacket, swollen backpack

He was young
And old
In maybe some nineteen years
His smile white-washed
Whatever pain he felt
From the thorns in his side
And the pebbles in his shoes

Thank you, ma'am
To the five I held out the window
I looked at him, in explanation
I have two sons
and smiled back
Perhaps
He knew what I left unsaid

He spun around quickly
A hotfoot back to the island
Between life’s metered routine
Of off-ramp or on-ramp
Cardboard and marker prayer
I want to go home
Please help

-------

Marty launched himself on the couch
Disturbing my peace
What ya’ doing, mom
Leaning against my side
With a calculated grin
So seldom done anymore
His shoulder length hair
cast across his face


jeanne rené 10/03