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.