Poetry

When you were small and went to play

I warned you not to chase the ball

between parked cars or swing too high

or ride your bike down rocky slopes

or dive into a pool you didn’t know

or talk to strangers in the street.

Take care, I called, take care.

At home I taught you to eat greens

and brush your teeth, take vitamins

and turn away when someone sneezed

and never to eat food picked off the floor,

or carry knives and scissors sharp point up

or run down stairs two at a time.

Take care I said, take care

And later when you learned to drive

I’d beg you not to show off or to speed

or drink or fool around with drugs

or fill your car with noisy friends

and always to make sure your lights

were on and you had enough gas.

Take care, I cried, take care.

Take care, my son, I scream inside

now that you’re far away. Watch

out for land mines, duck the bombs,

beware the shrapnel, the grenades,

the bullets flying through the air,

the missiles from the sky. Look out

for snipers, booby traps, and wear

your helmet at all times. Stay low

my son. Come home, my son.

Take care, I pray, take care.