STORMY NEIGHBORHOOD BY ALITA PIRKOPF

Out of a white,

wild night,

my son's friend

appears at our door—

troubled, sad.

I am the one he finds

at home. Awkwardly 

he apologizes, feels

talking an imposition. 

I think perhaps 

a solution. At least

a feeling better 

than the cold

and despair 

of his storm walking.

"Please call home,"

I, listening,

can't know if

I will urge—

so another mother

doesn't think 

of drugs

and violence

after such anger

and a walking out—

single son,

single parent,

soft, cold reality.

February 5, 2021