muffin men

I saw the child looking down the hill
the trees and the lunchbox houses and the mailbox
with the bright red flag (chipped paint, but still bright)
was going ring ring ring to let you know that
someone somewhere sent you something;
and that maybe you should stop being in such a rush
to get from your driveway to your front door
and take a quick peep, because there might be something inside

but the hill was steep and there were potholes
and cracks and loose gravel
so many disasters just waiting to happen
why on earth would he jeopardize
a very acceptable level of existential peace
risking the skin off his knees and the fine fettle of his wrist

“just to see” , “just to see” he pled
and then I thought of my own father
his vascular forehead lubricated with
some of the ugliest sweat I’ve ever seen
angry from losing so much money
but he’ll never stop
and the child kept pleading with me
his eyes were bright with either
his natural ignorance
or some uncanny flicker of precocious genius

I’m a sucker for visibly underfed and
under-appreciated children like this one
and off he went, off he went, he went off
he was hardly off, hardly off
he was thrown off, he’s badly off
the lights are off, shut off the goddamn lights

that was the hill in front of our house
and later that night, awkwardly spilling the scent of liquor I never drink
I stepped outside and started walking down
the trajectory of the child–he was badly off–
and found the instrument that tossed him off
he made it about halfway–down the hill, at least
and it was dark and warm, like an oven being preheated
and I felt like a muffin, hot as all hell
waiting to singe fingers and tongues
that boorishly try to take anticipatory nibbles
no wonder he wanted to do it

I wished someone was holding my hand
but nobody was–nobody
so I got on, I rode on, what was I on?
but then I, too, was off.
badly off

they kept saying
we’re badly off
but I loved him more than words can describe
because
we are muffins
made from the same batter