Saturday, January 5, 2019

The babe

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

head hung on limp rooted neck
stands at the doorway

as an arch

leaning slightly like to burp

his future falling toward

I could not move to escape.