Mom is sixty, from nowhere, Ohio.
When I asked her where she lived, she showed me:
On a flat block in a flat bungalow.
Knowing that, I asked how I came to be.
Our pathetic car, in Cincinnati,
Passed the red house of her college boyfriend.
He was a football player, who screamed Ho Chi!
Minh, (crucified him) then, like a bird, unleashed the end.
He came back crazy and fucked her. Wonder!
His legs and arms could be replaced with mine,
But God, he couldn’t touch anyone.
In Cincinnati, at a stop sign,
We saw him kicking on his back
In a park full of giants and skyscrapers.
“Park Birds” was printed in Breaking Curfew, No. 4 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
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