Father and Son in July
 
Our home, child
where art is darkness
and razor-wire climbs high
the walls of our poem
is where
prostitutes make their jazz
and wonder why it’s so hard to shut your eyes
it’s so hard to shut your eyes
 
Our home, child
where silent lips
speak novels and sermons
under the barnacle-ridden, split-wood dock
is where
late night scoundrels conduct their offerings
and wonder why it’s so hard to shut your eyes
it’s so hard to shut your eyes
 
Our home, child
where the death toll hum
rest assures our space in slumber
is where
gauntlets, religions and syringes
gauze and saline
cleanse my bulging ask
and wrap a tourniquet around my neck
and wonder why it’s so hard to shut your eyes
it’s so hard to shut your eyes
 
Our home, child
where boys in their madness
drown themselves in each others’ stream
is where
dazed alley walkers
cushion my desire
and sway my temptation to climb upon the vine
and wonder why it’s so hard to shut your eyes
it’s so hard to shut your eyes
 

copyright 1993, 2002, Frank Messina

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