12.16.17

I saw your mother standing
at the base of the stairs
with her arm looped around
the guard rail
staring into nothing
as fireworks exploded in her mind.
My son hates me, she said. What
do I do?
You should talk to her.
And what do I say?
You’re sorry.
For what?
It doesn’t matter. Just sorry.

Written at 8:11 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.