He was last spotted
With his gnarled hands
making love to his pockets
maybe bearing a child
half palm
half cotton

Every so often
he’d flail the lint
from his fingernails
serrated from his spleen,
knot them up
into steely ***** of yarn
and batter the window
of his sister’s room

His knuckles may have suffered
some trauma
but it’s likely now
they speak in scars
with windbag bones
that don’t shut up


He isn’t a looker
His nose is large
and barbed
like wire
with currents
that breathe in pollen
he’s allergic to

He got inked last March
on his eighteenth
shrouding his flaxen leg hairs
in ****** red roses,
a wide mouthed skull
with an inverted cross
bludgeoning its left temple,
and the words
“Here’s to your destiny”
in all caps

He has a mop
of tow colored hair
and narrow eyes
either a robin’s egg
or air force blue
that I once piloted

He’s a well padded
five feet and nine inches
But I picture him
far rounder

You’ll never see him
well kempt
he smells of minced cattle
and marijuana


He could dissolve you
into laughter
even on unlit nights
when the moon
goes to the cleaners
and the stars
swish around
in the Laundromat
with your knickers

His grin was cloying
like syrup
until his teeth stuck together
in a wonted pout

Don’t keep your eyes peeled

You won’t find his face
on a milk carton

This boy isn’t really missing

He’s out there somewhere
studying chemistry
or law

But he isn’t here
to give me hell
anymore

So I picture his calf,
his immutable tattoo
whispering
“Here’s to your destiny”

and hope I still have one