After the Boy Left

After the boy left, and the house leaned inward,

His blue pen still scribbled in his mother’s chest.

Under the moon’s eye, lit with ache, I

Wanted to tell her — in less than tears — of pains

That snapped like thread.

All day I walked the city’s alleys, among red tales,

Held by each corner that stood at the end like fog.

Loud were the streetlights, and all the puddles

Reflected torn paths — and light,

In spite of the rib’s soft drops.

By the fading sun, where the boy once walked, I asked:

Why leave the blue pen,

When his lap-world failed?

In the house, shirts were magnets.

But his eyes — they still held a hope of faith.

To the boy who wandered all night,

Each vehicle was a living home,

Reinventing a shelter I thought was dead as old prayers.

Blessing the life, and the love —

By ache.