Motherless

When she left,

he was a cherub

in tiny chucks and a baseball cap.
Now, he’s a worm

in a cracked leather jacket.

His ripped and faded blue jeans
reek of parking ramp urine.
He wears her memory
around his neck.
But it fails to anchor him.

His teeth spatter out raw,

uninterrupted bits of

unintelligible data

like a dot matrix printer.

His fingerless gloves cling to

her photograph, spoons, lighters, and cash

in lieu of baseballs, and model trains.

His bowl, once full of applesauce and a future,
 is now an empty pyramid,

contents cast aside.
Eventually, his heart exchanged

for a band-aid.
Dreams are where the needle disappears,

under the skin.