The night Bobby Inch died
my father came home wild-eyed and crying.
A cattle truck charging through the dusk
caught the paper boy high on its horns,
threw him breathless to one side.
We wore the same shirt that day.
In flashing reds and blues,
my father saw the shirt, still
against the blacktop.
Felt me slipping from him.
Seeing Bobby’s face,
some other father’s son,
he raced home to rage and rant
and hold me, looking deep
into my wide open eyes.