your son is a homeless drug addict your son is
your son is a homeless drug addict your son
until it becomes real
I’ll fill my wedding vase
with deep-veined lilies, harlot asters,
pollen will dust the table
where I mass them every week.
I, too, have friends dead from drugs,
guys I hung out with on my hometown streets
and in the war memorial park with wood railings
we kept falling off, too stoned to balance on.
An addict is an actor, able to look you in the eye, smile, and lie so convincingly that you begin to question yourself.