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.