Yes, yours was the most unusual
of reasons,
to avoid the city playgrounds,
the parks where noisy children
race amok.
One of these little boys
will be the death of me you said,
singling out
the preschool lad
on the base of the monkey bars.
A murderer,
when he’s all grown up,
one of them has to be.
You quote statistics, demographics,
the laws of happenstance.
Look at his cherub innocence,
that ice cream-covered face.
For whatever wayward reason
he will turn,
despise a younger sibling,
his mother’s scolding ways,
learn that knives can do much more
than slice an orange, butter bread.
You’ll pass him on the sidewalk
in the future,
your purse will tantalize,
sway with every cane-abetted
step,
or, on a night you’re even older,
you’ll answer fervent knocks,
shed your caution
when it’s due,
his blade upon your throat
upon his entrance,
no hint of recognition,
no sub-atomic
memory
of your eyeing his every
leap,
when he fell
upon a stone
and you were near,
stuck a bandage
where he’d bled.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
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