Our Son after the Q Bar

First there was the letter
found in the sports bag 

on the bathroom floor
           dumped like a wet towel
          or a broken animal  

I warned your
father not to read it  

Then the photo
canary yellow cargo pants    

a red tank top shining
like the nose of your birthday clown

remember, or the eyes of someone young with a
bad prognosis   the gleam of your

biceps I imagine in the glitter ball
your buffed twin in the mirror

Next morning we found you,      
sweet Vengaboy, bounced off the  

Milky way, words drumming the space       
Boom Boom Boom  

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