Torrents stormed tiny raindrops on his fists.
Confusion trembled with guilt, hot guilt
stepping for the riot parade.
Alarm had died long ago, bored with practice.
He stroked his wetting-pillow,
rubbed his toes against the mattress, yes
was soft, like his head. Daddy said so.
Another night, Stupid. Just.
He couldn't learn. The wall was hard, anyway.
Good was a greasy fat idea.
His back was a welting pad, like his memory,
dumb boy. Say sir, say sir, use "please."
Shame was a mooching pal.
The belt a wise, most days attendant. Cared.
He told himself his story
about, see, being the famous astronaut into
space. Cheers made the bumps pulse.
He pinched some blanket fuzz
in his fingers, rolled it over and over. Like calm.
He always told his brothers
to be quiet, young. I did it. I am a Sorry.
He didn't know. He watched the spittle
spray so clear, bent to lessons
whistling in leather. Listened to his singing.
Sometimes he heard buzzing
with the shouting to get up. In his mind
for hours, and his ears, after slapping.
He would really fly, a tiny birdie
in the lion's paw. Lots of flashes, idiot.
Dad knew he was worthless.
Loved him, like a son. Told him things
about getting better, after. New stuff.
He would send to his room.
Hope for a moron's supper. Only eat.
He spread his fingers. Look
at his dunce's claw. A little cup of
peace. Shaking with his love. Day,
it would stop. He licked the
swelling. Tomorrow, he would play.
Copyright 2000 DPMcClellan
