THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS.
I am not boy, I am not same, I am not sick, I am not coming back.
I guess I can't explain it. It's heavier than a word. I guess I look the same. What a shame they didn't attach something reflective to me. On my way through, they said, "This isn't easy," and I casually remarked, without ever knowing, "Well, anyway, life is hard." But when I stepped in here, with my weird luck, every boy still called me by my dead name, not seeing anything of a wing, the ghost of a toddling lamb, laughing at my joke, picking through waste baskets for wisdom.
So I said, "Look at me."
And they all replied in unison,
"I already have. That is to say, no thank you. Move steadily along now, mister. Must make room for the many blessings tomorrow has to share with me - with me - with me!"
Fine, yes, I promise to haunt this place. Yes, yes, yes.
So, each time, I let those boys pass right through me. They were hard and fell, like cinder blocks, gliding through like a butcher's knife into a headless swine. I let them call me "good dog". All those cleverly concealed pipe-bombs. Sulfuric acid foaming at the rim of a glass. They jog the length of a cell block, counting all their plastic mothers in a row. May we? And a 1. And a 2. And a 3. Or was that a 2? - - - Yes, sir, that was a 2. A pity your vision must be going. Anyway, good-bye.
Oh how the mighty are flailing.