Dressed
to reflect our mother’s respect.
Left
on the steps,
waiting
What to inspected.

With little intent,
we
boys
unable to pent,
spilled down the stairs,
our mischief
a crooked sklent.

No fear
for the unkent.
Our joy
wild, content,
without pause,
without consent
for our mother’s lament.

Her eyes
narrowed and bent,
as she breathes
in our scent.
Emotions rise
then ascend,
but all she shows
is dissent.

We
too young to repent.
Boys
full of descent.
Her smile
soon blent,
but her love
never pent.

With arms bent,
mouths full of incent,
spitting mud
with wild intent
we drank
from puddles.