How is the light this morning, my brother?
You’ve had your coffee, your three cigarettes
and the spit you manage each new day from your front step
has landed on the grass outside.
The sun partly sheds clouds
as the little girl’s converse gently touch the flowers -
even daffodils and jonquils bend forward as she skips past -
and you, embroiled with intent,
lurk at the edge of the street, the camera
replacing the old trench coat, the lollipops
congealing in the depths of your cheap trouser pockets.
At night, in your frozen caravan,
while stars weep, and memories of a priest’s
urgent voice haunt,
you cut and paste; change
the clothed girl into
an image for your hunger.
How many bones litter, brother, words you’ve spoken
in the light of day to children
who have no idea that a digital camera
can so easily steal their innocence?
I have seen that image of my daughter
discovered on your computer -
oh brother
how far you have fallen and I no longer have the urge
to stretch out a hand to assist.
Fall brother, fall,
so far my anger cannot touch
while I try to erase that digital monstrosity
and remember my daughter as a child
not the victim of perversity.
Fall brother, fall.
