The guy who arrived with a suitcase
And stayed
Found, in time, some things of his own
In the messes he walked into.
He could discretely sympathize
Against the mother
In sly, side-wise smirks, and console
The absence of fathers.
The toys it fell to him to put away,
No one would tell him where they go.
No one understood what he cooked
Or his foreign folds of clothes.
He had to learn how acts of terror
Called for sympathy
And shrieks of glee demanded ice cream,
Participation trophies.
Love was a hand-me-down. He was forever found
Wanting to a ghost.
When his sockets came out of joint building a dresser,
Was it out of love?
And when he had to break it down and start over
When it turned out the wrong color
Was any love for him in the debris
A possibility?
The most important words
Were the ones he never said,
The ones he would always regret
Not saying,
That would have ripped like tissue
The family to shreds
But in hindsight were the only truths
Worth telling.
