For Ed Hall
Wash hands of him, rip collar,
band one arm in black.
Every year say kaddish, and press
a stone into the ground.
You saw his stumble on the down
step – a Mobile city bus –
two years old, but already wearing his father’s
sins – indistinct, sleepy, immobile
with Norman Rockwell crack,
his mother’s rage, “Get your black
ass up,” what the world will say
if he falls – dreaming – of red hair and freckles,
promises exed. Of course,
she turns on him, tears that calendar
from the wall, pops his woolgathering