On the street
by a crumbling grey tenement
of old white sneakers and coffee pots,
blue clotheslines and floral wallpaper
a young mother sits on her porch
folding her son's laundry
her eyes darting from button to fly
wondering what she could make him for supper
I stop
gather damp newspapers
and discarded plastic bottles that lined the curb
and stare long at the mother
whose hand gently flattens the creases that run
down the faded denim legs
of her beloved, ******* child
I light
a small fire in the rain.