The lost lay beads of smoking tears
a gift they grant is the suffering of life
their smile swell
Waking up to take care of crying babe
I'm on stairs leaning against the wall holding him, teetering
unsure how I got here
not on the stair
I am a father.
Waking in bed paralyzed
to next coming twenty years
a black shroud
shaped as sinister as newborn
skull
head hung on limp rooted neck
stands at the doorway
as an arch
lurched
leaning slightly like to burp
his future falling toward
me
I could not move to escape.
