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