Once,
within my hearing,
and thinking himself alone,
he said
I wish I were dead.
And I didn’t man up to that.
I god damn kept my hands in my pockets
and shied away from his tortured road.
And now, in my time of life,
I see to it that things are kept clean,
most especially those hard-to-reach places.
Angels are white-winged, I think,
and brook no negligence of care.
And I don’t know where he is now,
or if he can see my compulsion to shine things.
To bring them to bright.
Or if he knows his boy is just like him.
Aremyfeetofftheground 