Tim Frank ~ Who is My Baby Boy?

He jumps and sings
with hos­pi­tal alarm
and then leans on my shoulder
as he begs me
to wipe away his tears.

He tries to mouth
the word, pur­ple,
then points to the sun,
as if he wants to prowl
to the end of the rainbow.

He wrecks
the TV, the lights, and photos
of life
before and after,
then lugs coal from the fire
into his room to think
of ele­phants and electricity.

He floats on blankets
of dirt and despair—
can I describe him as vicious
and lonely?

What will happen
when he real­ly gets hurt
by an exca­va­tor truck,
build­ing his brave new world?

Maybe there’s a school
in the desert
that’ll teach me
what his sali­vat­ing smile
real­ly means.

And even when he strings sentences
together
like a prophet,
or unlocks the memories
of his youth
from the taste of apple juice,
I’ll nev­er know him
or the dreams that he’s bathed in,
like a car sinking
into a bot­tom­less, pre­his­toric lake.