He is bumbling. Clumsy.
He is awkward. Unmannerly.
Pop music plays on the drive home.
It’s just you, Mother, and your boy.
You tell him of the boys you remember,
of how she’ll never forget the ones who were mean,
of how she’ll never forget the ones who were not.
You wink. Confessing.
He sees you now.
He cranes his neck, forcing his face to the passenger side glass
and as the family wagon rolls on,
your right hand on his shoulder,
you know there are tears.