Mom’s steady stream of suitors
has been a sad cornucopia of
soccer coaches and divorcés.
But now she wears
a dreamy look
in her fake green eyes,
like the world is filled with
brand-new colors.
Like she’s the hormonal teen in the house.
I meet her new boyfriend for the first time
the two of them washing her black Buick
and his white convertible
in the driveway.
She says, “Hi.” And he says, “Hi,”
and I walk by
like they’re both invisible.
Lewis is like
if Elvis had a thick mustache
and a Pittsburgh accent;
he’s twelve years younger
than Mom,
six older than me.
He accepts the challenge of
my surly silence,
preteen Cara’s
icy stare,
and is moved
by Christopher,
the ten-year-old boy
who runs lightning fast
beside the other boys
because he doesn’t have a bike,
and who never got taught how to catch a ball
properly,
and whose wide, father-famished eyes follow
Lewis everywhere.