In the morning I ask if he has been treated well
and the administrator takes me to see him
in the chapel.
What a sight!
I smile and ask him,
do you want to take
one more leaf
of my scented geranium
and see what will happen
if you keep trying to scribble
those meaningless
words
with the tip
of your filthy, soil-stained
fingernail?
The poet-boy, poet-man,
almost grown and still composing sad verses
he says nothing at first,
then finally,
with a sigh,
the proper answer:
No.
Already he begins to swell like a corpse,
disgusting,
a horror
So I command the priest
Bathe him, I say
Apply ointments,
take care of this poor child
Don’t you know how to be merciful
and kind?