Put out on the street,
by a mother bent
over, crying, her eyes
red from hours of shedding
tears, confused and conflictive,
losing the fight with rationality
as she gave up on her son,
who only brought back pain
from the abyssal floor of sunken
memories his father built with her
now buried deep under an ocean
with warped frames from conflict.
The son now walks;
his car door is open,
his arms stuffed full,
his mind nearly empty.
The rest of the junk wasn't worth
all the hurt of going back in,
or so he tells himself, feeling
as if he were the junk
his mother thought wasn't
worth dealing with any longer.
9 October 2019
