Father would shout “Boy!”
And Boy would come running
Just like a dog
When he first came into the house
Blooded from the accident
Mother still wanted him
Father cursed the drink and the car
But tolerated
At first he was wet and loud
Mother drying and soothing
While Father’s frown could be seen
Hard through the paper he read
Letting slip the occasional sheet
Once or more
For no reason a hand would rush
Into Boy no reason
no reason Mother would say
Rubbing her baby’s head
Yelps and whining were heard
Echoes from nothing
First through the house
Then the basement
Then the box in the garden
The only thing Father made for Boy
Where he would lick his wounds
Watching Mother at the window