The world, no longer
at my feet
but at my back
with teeth
the color of rust
and I
am supposed to remain
happy.
The day
comes right on time
every time, exact
with forbidden reserve,
steadily frosting
my afternoon sun with nonsensical
gloom.
In spite of it,
I hold my head high,
enter courtrooms, jail houses, rehabilitation
centers and doctors offices
with an exasperated smile
on my face, saying: this is my son,
he needs your help.
Along the banks of any river,
clutter.
Along the corridors of any hospice,
decay.
Perhaps I am too inadequate.
What kisses I've given,
I've taken none in return.