Skate Park Kid
The learning curve arrived at three in the morning
with two armed guards and one unaffected
nurse greeting me near his curtained
guerney. He was raging against
restraints with words like suicide
and speeding car. Oxycontin.
I know when he cries
he cries smaller, grinds longer
rails. He’d pop-shove along Greyhound
bus curbs for a ride back to the coast.
So he says. A box of Pacific
sand in his father’s trunk, Burnside tickets,
that one picture of his mother. Everything he hates
rides with him when he runs. Stay
and meet yourself—I want to tell him.
He was a Sunday born in June, the little boy
without a captain’s mask. I see this
when he grinds, when he stand-flips,
when I won’t post his bond.
Previously published in Temenos Journal.