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<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">Sal Cetrano</div> 
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Revision as of 21:15, 2 March 2021

« The Mailer Review • Volume 13 Number 1 • 2019 »
Written by
Sal Cetrano
URL: http://prmlr.us/mr13cet2
The Child
Sal Cetrano

For years I’ve tried to bury
the child in me: that last proud
barber pole I stood in front of
as a boy, the new housing project,
chain-lined walks, blacktop sweat,
poverty just a spelling word.

To rate responsibility, I’ve tried
to rid myself of selfish
evasion. It’s just as well
that I move to Nepal!
Someone believes, someone bleeds.
A girl bolts screaming from bed,

her hands pathetic wild birds,
a wooden man plods from
the house of his single mind.
At such times, when the cover
is torn off catalog comforts
and nothing grown seems full,

the child sliding head-first
into home, center of a good idea,
dustily rises, clear on the score,
and the words that passed for life
go in one ear and out the other,
a naughty habit never broken.

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