You can be new, I promise
We had to ride the elevator
up 12 floors to take you home.
Remember we had to push
the 12 button a thousand times first?
Remember retreating to the edges of the lift
to keep safe from the gaping hole
in the floor?
I walked you to your door. You threw
one arm around me, and my arms lingered
on your boyish shoulders.
Years later I take you home with me.
I push the lift button once. We lean
against the walls for comfort only.
My flat is clean and safe and new.
You are new, my son. You are home,
After more years you call me from your biological
cousin’s kitchen. The lawsuit he won from
your aunt’s medical death pays
one hundred thousand dollars every year.
He gives it to the gang you’re in.
You’re crying and too old,
and I’m pleading. Come home, my son,
come back home.