Across the Field

The rain, cold and piercing,
does not straighten the shaggy hair,
does not soothe the wounded eyes,
does nothing of the sort.

He is out because the boyfriend is in,
a guest, a VIP,
another Trojan horse of a man,
guaranteed to surprise and
horrify, as his
own father once did,
as many have before.

Sometimes the hurt comes out,
in flashes, in the
form of a tight spiral or a
headslap, the latter a
reminder of what
was done to him.

His mother medicates herself
against him, the walking
talking reminder of a virus
that once got in,
and will again.

Branches snap and puppies
run from nature, out of
balance, hat slammed low,
dripping cold drops,
hair pressed to skin,
slogging across the field.