Our Son after the Q Bar

First there was the letter
found in the sports bag 

on the bathroom floor
           dumped like a wet towel
          or a broken animal  

I warned your
father not to read it  

Then the photo
canary yellow cargo pants    

a red tank top shining
like the nose of your birthday clown

remember, or the eyes of someone young with a
bad prognosis   the gleam of your

biceps I imagine in the glitter ball
your buffed twin in the mirror

Next morning we found you,      
sweet Vengaboy, bounced off the  

Milky way, words drumming the space       
Boom Boom Boom  

View this poem on The Disappearing »