it can trench and channel
you - a deep conscious gulf
mother narrating,
“the connection is bad
I can hardly hear you,”
but you know **** well
it isn’t the phone
you think to yourself
as you chat, something
has progressed –
this thing is stirring
not eternal
so you lean in
attending honorably
to her while she
talks to her pain
and updates you
about father,
you do the right thing,
because you care
and because she wiped
your *** and fed you
warm sweet milk (at night),
and rubbed menthol
on your chest
when you couldn’t breathe
and your arrogance
fades into nothingness
with each sunset  
you steadily slow
and the know it all spawn
who has the whole ****
thing figured out
stares at his plate
issuing predictions
like you don’t know
what the hell you -
are talking about
and your mind flashes
back in time
from mother to son
when you were so willing
to see the world
your parents were
just a barrier
to the open road
and bottles of six
it’s comical that way
how things drift
in circles
so quick loose,
the golden valediction
the ghost plate
has not proceeded
but is forever altered
where his way leads.