Santino

It would be rude to
Ask his mother (running to market for syringes)
Ask if he was crooked coming out,
A broken bambino, was he?

Haunched Santino and his mother
From their makeshift hut of crates
And unwanted soiled baby blankets
Stab themselves between the toes

While the Asians pass through
In their Lexus's and glittering Samsungs
As indifferent as the heroine
That Santino and his mother buy
(Veins like fingers rivers lightning)

She's sensitive about everything,
Watch what you say...
It seems like love, a son and his enabler
Or vice verses all the world
A rotten oyster.

I dare not ask his mother
Which came first
(The chicken or the egg?)
Was he a crack baby, her good boy, Santino
Or was she?

“Watch your mouth!”— She's yelling
At foodies parking their cars,
With her eyes closed, walking about, lost, lots...

He's a good kid, forever her bambino
I now understand selfishness
How deformed came the world to Santino...