Fostering

Yellow ghosts
hang from the thread
at the edge of the bed.
Poor lad.
Wet again.
Change the sheets,
for the God fearing child,
gather his clothes,
tend to his mind.

He plays with a firetruck
but when I say play I mean drives it into the wall,
there's too much to heal in too short a time.
Drunk for a mother,
pimp for a father,
gang member for a brother
and me, unrelated, just a stranger,
no one really to trust
with so much mistrust.

When he spits after drawing, on walls
stick figures that kill each other in
red and black crayon, breathe. It would be so much
easier to let him go
but surrounding the boy
with positive light,
food constantly on the table,
a smile every morning.
Can you deny him that?
Only eight and already broken.

"So much hard work."
I can understand the reason
but the production is too rewarding to leave
the loveless on the porch.
I'll always be blunt.
A door ever open is all I can offer,
I know the price of broken homes
and I shalln't shy from it.
I may not know you,
I may not be biologically yours but
welcome yourself into a home
and don't forget to leave a memento on the way out.
(I don't mind the drawings, really.)