Max
"Can he talk?"
"No."
"Is he your son?"
"No."
He tries to take the chewed up
Food out of his mouth
Not because he isn't hungry
But to play with it
In his, for all appearances,
Half-conscious state
(head hung low, nodding thickly)
While being fed lunch
In the middle of a sunny park.
I gently bat his hands from his animal mouth
Jelly and peanut butter all over his tiny fingers
He rolls the moist bread crumbs
Between his fingers
Into a fine paste.
This frustrates me.
Until I try and imagine
Life behind undeveloped eyelids.
Watery white. Infant big.
Drool-splattered shirts.
Sadder than tears.
God's secret good.
Stumbling, now, stumbling.
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