The angry one
This morning, Sunday, 5:30 a.m.
Studio City Metro Station
The sound of a train leaving
GOD DAM, MOTHER F*CKER, SON OF A B…CH
SON OF A B…….TCH
Picking up and banging his bike front tire on
the surface while his feet stump
GOD DAMMMM. SON OF A BITTTTCHO
Only 15 minutes before the next train
But that sliver of time must mean
Must mean what?
Late again for work?
A partner about to have a baby?
The last of a long night of failing?
The anger does not invite that reassuring
nod which says , “I feel your pain
Been there.”
Close enough to touch
Yet a universe away.
A moment of fear that he will…
Will what?
Lash out mistaking himself for me?
The naked vulnerability is known to all.
Perhaps this chocolate man is the age
Of my son whose home I have just left
5’8”, 160 pounds – a duplicate only in a
chocolate flavor
We parents want to comfort and, if lucky,
quickly accept that sometimes comfort is
best offered silently as our hearts send out
protective screens.
What if……
What if the internal combustion is so
unbearable?
In a flash he flings himself onto the tracks
like a tossed ripe tomato morphing into
the photograph now carefully hung on a
gallery wall.
“That artist makes me uncomfortable.”
“Oh, that red reminds of that full skirted
tango skirt I had in Argentina. Did I ever tell
you the ….?”
“Really, I could throw a tomato on canvas
and photograph it. This is art?
The next train arrives.
He, his bicycle, I and a few others board.
He sits holding his bike steady while his head
finds the comfort of his chest.
All the anger spent.
Three stops and he rushes off.
To go ….?
I go on to Union Station and then on
the Fly Away to the airport.
My chocolate son now a shadow to be
tucked into some recess of my heart.
Written April 10, 2016
This morning, Sunday, 5:30 a.m.
Studio City Metro Station
The sound of a train leaving
GOD DAM, MOTHER F*CKER, SON OF A B…CH
SON OF A B…….TCH
Picking up and banging his bike front tire on
the surface while his feet stump
GOD DAMMMM. SON OF A BITTTTCHO
Only 15 minutes before the next train
But that sliver of time must mean
Must mean what?
Late again for work?
A partner about to have a baby?
The last of a long night of failing?
The anger does not invite that reassuring
nod which says , “I feel your pain
Been there.”
Close enough to touch
Yet a universe away.
A moment of fear that he will…
Will what?
Lash out mistaking himself for me?
The naked vulnerability is known to all.
Perhaps this chocolate man is the age
Of my son whose home I have just left
5’8”, 160 pounds – a duplicate only in a
chocolate flavor
We parents want to comfort and, if lucky,
quickly accept that sometimes comfort is
best offered silently as our hearts send out
protective screens.
What if……
What if the internal combustion is so
unbearable?
In a flash he flings himself onto the tracks
like a tossed ripe tomato morphing into
the photograph now carefully hung on a
gallery wall.
“That artist makes me uncomfortable.”
“Oh, that red reminds of that full skirted
tango skirt I had in Argentina. Did I ever tell
you the ….?”
“Really, I could throw a tomato on canvas
and photograph it. This is art?
The next train arrives.
He, his bicycle, I and a few others board.
He sits holding his bike steady while his head
finds the comfort of his chest.
All the anger spent.
Three stops and he rushes off.
To go ….?
I go on to Union Station and then on
the Fly Away to the airport.
My chocolate son now a shadow to be
tucked into some recess of my heart.
Written April 10, 2016
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