David, fifteen,
lives in a Bonneville
on blocks
in front of a shack
where for him
there is no room
in a boozy
baby boom.
When David was three,
Mom ran away.
Pop plays
with guns.
Stepmom's a screamer.
David never misbehaves,
hates milk,
gives signs he knows
what's understood:
His folks stink up
the neighborhood.
Every morning the sideview
mirror on my car
faces forward
after David passes by.
He won't meet my eye,
won't speak,
yet he watches me,
always watches.
I want to ask:
Do you reverse the mirror
in hostility
or kinship?
Once, for different reasons
I was that boy.
Does he know?
He must.
But how?
In the backwards
reflection I see
what's coming
as it came for me.
Already packed.
In a year or less
with new tires
pedal to metal,
that Pontiac,
he'll never
look back.
from Son of a Poet
© Copyright 1986 and 2000 by Joe Cottonwood