And Heard (a poem)

You can't deflate A.J.

(a small difficult boy who spent evenings

away from TV and bath water to

throw stones

skyward

smack to the zenith and beyond;

the stray shots fretted his parents

and their friends

and neighbors who

complained about broken glass and pitted paint and

nervous pets

who would shiver under the steps whenever

A.J.

came round,

yipping and throwing).

FINALLY (IN BROAD DAYNIGHT)

mum and daddy confronted him;

asked him why while

otherboys were comfortably at

their homework and

chores: dishes and takeoutthegarbage

(being goodastheyshouldbe children)

HE stood in the street with handfuls

of gravel, riddling the sky.

So, young man, why?

And his reply:

(never slowing or looking anywhere but up

for even a blink)

"Target practice."

And mum and daddy breathed out very slowly

and smiled unsmilingly at each other

and fluttered their hands like edgy sparrows and

tried to, well, now how do you explain

just how SILLY--

GOT ONE! screamed A.J. dancing foot to foot

as they shifted their heads on one focus

to observe the shredded-light tail of a

shooting s

t

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