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.