Dad produced a knife, not money 

In the police station now where

I’m not even a participant  observer

two little boys are sitting in the detectives’ area

with the obligatory caseworkers

both appropriately harried and frenetic

each working a phone.

I know this scene

been here before;

the worst part of ths gig

I see a P2 I know, works the J-car there

“What do you have,” I ask

and in this radio-friendly baritone,

a blunt force deadpan of fact he relays,

“Mom got filleted by dad; the tall one saw it.” 

I have that incredulous look

on what used to be a soft warm mug

but now furrowed, weighted & leathery

(from trying to make sense out of stuff like this

or maybe that’s just the way time gets you)

“Dad showed up to the house 

to give mom some money for child support 

so the kid lets him in 

and Dad produces a knife, not money.”

and the rest, as they say, is history

Another night, another caper

trauma unfurled,

the home as storm

& not shelter from it

Mom will survive,

but Dad, unfortunately is also fine

because he’s in the wind.

fGOA—Fucking Gone On Arrival.

No mas. History. Fini.

Not appearing in this picture

As if he ever was

to begin with

 

The little boys are a few feet away from me

I can’t really do anything;

it’s not my shit sandwich

So I listen and act like I’m not listening,

I’ll download it with everything

else I can’t forget,

I’ll sublimate it via the dark screed,

or purge via the poem;

I hastily rub some tears off the leatherface

the suits and dicks have done their questioning

and they’re walking out and shutting up shop;

the social workers have made the Arrangements

and they’re telling the kids

they’re going somewhere else tonight

but not home

it’s the older one that’s whimpering,

stammering and his glasses are fogging up &

I don’t wanna go…NO NO NO NO

which is pretty much my mantra too

But I default inward  to a lame prayer

more for me than them

to the universe, for the mother’s picker

for death by lead deficiency; a car wreck;

a severed jugular, gangland necktie,

aneurism, exploding heart—something

for the fleeing felon Father

 

But there are no answers

there’s nothing to say

not here anyways,

not with the machinations

of this terrible humanity

splayed out under a fluorescent stage

Accentuated by radio chatter

the wild passenger-ridden city

strewn hither and yon

amongst shadow

and scenester alike

to come and take

the screaming child

in all of us

away

 

maybe the witnesses

are to tragedies

we’ve yet to acknowledge

sometimes that’s all you can give

but mostly if you’re lucky

(as they say i am)

just being there for it,

feeling something about it

is half the battle.

but every time

I see kids like that

I know it’s  just the beginning

for them

and like any war

there aren’t any winners

just the fight

and the survival,

if that.

–Circa 2015. East of Los Angeles, CA