My son is
led from my house
in handcuffs,
as I catch a glimpse
of myself in the
hall mirror.

At least my hair
looks good today,
I think to myself,

The window of my
front door frames
his long, gawky body
and I think that
it’s almost like
a picture I have
hanging on the wall
when he was three,
except for the handcuffs and
the police car and the bitter
look in his eyes.

Could this be the same
kid who loved me so much.

I pace the hallway,
looking at my toenails
painted blush pink in my sandals,

Summertime is usually better than
this I tell myself
How was your summer?
Oh fine, it was warm, and my son was arrested
for selling drugs.

The air conditioner kicks on
as the hot air from the open screen door
flows through, and I think
of my electric bill and how much
it will cost,
when I’ve already paid way too much.