younger than me
sweeter than I could ever be

what is more lonesome
than the youth
that drags its own wings through the dirt?
what else would I have done?

I've watched hope spring
time and time again
cling its moist roots
to arid land

somehow

as infertile a wild;
some auspice offered
to skin softer than mine

what I'd lost
before they'd begun to gain
bucks buried in the halogen
of the world ahead

and what small sorrow it crows for yet
like a father's shaking hands
before I knew what trembling was

or what such a shaken man begets

or life along the highway line
another cry carried on the air
threatened like road-wandering swine
a frightened feral

what is more uncaring
than childhood fancy –
what is more forgetful of me?

how abrupt has it been
and then to end in collision
flame spiraling, firing off its hot spittle –
the youngest of the few

never quite young enough