52 SONGS

...the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life...

Sunday, November 13, 2011

The Kid I'm Angry At

is bouncing the basketball in the yard
out back, has ignored me when I asked
if he'd help out, is singing or talking to
himself. The ball goes pat pat pat on
the cement then a break then he holds it.
His head is like mine, in some way.
It must be. What makes me so bad
is my refusal to stop what I know makes me
so bad, and could make it worse for me,
us, for him. He mocks openly because
he's young. What I do is what's been done.
Like him I don't know how to stop.
Or I do, I do, but my body, and my will.
The lines carrying electricity and
information above his head are arrayed
like a funnel of sin beneath the sky
bringing dispatches pulse-propelled
to the hole above the window and
down the wall to me to where I type.
I can feel a world opening at my touch.
It can't be his fault, his anger-making
actions. He's too young. Protect him.

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