A Fist Full of Tears

A kid sits at the spit
split from the family
(with no idea of the convo
running rampant behind him) he
picks up two sticks
contemplates his next dig,
lines in the sand
draw the perfect pic

“Chur, you’re my man,”
she says to her husband –
kid draws (a world void
of his mother’s shenanigans)
a castle, a dragon, a
moat and a plan,
to live happily ever after
near the moana in Northland.

In kid’s sandy depiction he
draws his mother’s trace
(show’s no inclination of
his mother’s fall from grace),
next, his father’s face
(full of disgrace)
kid draws blanks on the
man in his father’s place

er, kid reels fingertips
over the dream he seeks –
“You can’t have two men,”
his father’s voice weeps.
With a sudden keen ear,
the kid changes gear,
and he smears the sand clear
with a fist full of tears.