Aftermath

He walks in his father’s uniform,
Alcohol-washed and charcoal-pressed,
But already a size too small
For his puberty-powered coming-of-height.

We walks in his father’s uniform,
Sweeping yellow and green confetti
From last night’s party on laburnum trees
That the monkeys forgot to clean up after.

He walks in his father’s uniform,
Picking biowaste with polythened hands
With the same energy he has for picking
Fly-ridden leftovers of overnight orphanhood.

He walks in his father’s uniform,
Rolling a wheelbarrow of sludge
Patiently loaded with steady arms,
‘Cause everyone cries over spilled muck.

He walks in his father’s uniform,
A volcano quenched by heavy downpour.

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