As a rubber ball
the child’s heart is bounced
from concrete walls
while courtroom antics
are played out for spite by all.
Finger pointing, lying, loud voices
and between times an ice cream cone for a boy.
A boy or perhaps a toy
waits with this one or another, while robes and
books decide on a father or a mother.
Perhaps a Saturday father will be born, for rules
are rules and stated clear, they read that a mother’s
love is best.
Pay no mind to children’s love or reality.
Pacing floors and clouded eyes, stare at yellowed prints
adorning walls of aged wood and words.
Father speaks in turn of days gone by, promises love and speaks
of a son not a boy.
“Times may change” a voice whispers to the trembling man,
“the past may not endure”.
A miracle today they all say, as the majestic rooms hold
mumblings by the score.
Hand in tiny hand they move on out, to streets of hard cement,
where dreams are waiting to be built.
No Saturday father today, perhaps another time.