Skeleton-still,
we stood. Those
before us who
Believed, arrayed
like statues, trophies
of the child killed
We couldn’t bear
to dust
or box away.
The dark arch
to the lost teen’s
bedroom, jersey
Now empty, baseball team
down a man—
out with an injury.
Wild pitch. Passed ball.
Technical knockout.
Technical foul.
Flagrant two. The flagration
of the car turned over
he lay dead beside
A good while.
Dark dye
seeping into the street.
No pop flies. No catch—
player to be
named later—
No sheet we’ll provide—
Just the blue-tail fly
doornailed, hungry,
Fit to die.