Every time I boil water
my mind bubbles elsewhere
hotter hating those long
dead half men
who braided you
painful patterns
caulked you into their
weedy concrete
buried you in their cheeks
to hide their untimely clenching
and us younger uncles
pure and weak
left with nothing else
but to sigh
and scorch pots.

Your pain is a false debt
I want to forgive.

On the best back way to the park
I met an old well-meant friend,
gave him greetings, condolences,
and directions,
everything I'd found since.

Let me leave you gently
to come back content.

If I were you,
I'd wear my armor
on the outside
too.

Every time you fall asleep,
something
nearby
awakes.

The weeds that find
the cracks
in your concrete
have begun
to peek through
me.