Even the flies pray

In the night when I tuck him into bed, I see things 

Not small images or clips, but things

I see my old hair, not my gray hair, my old hair 

I see the curl pattern ruffle and reveals a small head 

It reminds me of other boys I would catch running 

Running from what, I don’t know

 only sound followed 

I heard shrieks of responsibility and chores coming from homes 

I heard giggling and laughter as they shrugged responsibility 

This caused an observation of mothers that perched on porches

Eyeing their children and taking flight after them, underneath the sun

I smell the food they leave in their homes with reckless abandon 

I smell the larger pieces meant for the fathers that’ll return 

Strangely this often a mixed bag of events 

If the father returns, all is normal, but if not, all is normal 

I feel the unity of family as well as the absence of it 

I feel the apathy for a turn of empathic events 

Between the coming tide of adulthood on shores of adolescence 

It’s a beach full of happiness and sinking sand   

I think I should cry for them in the time I have

I think they're happy, but I don’t know, they used to look like me 

Now they’re strangers to me as well as themselves, visitors -

To their own homes, they find the kitchen table inside 

I hope this gives them closure unlike me 

I hope they believe in the illusions once so present 

Don’t grow up so fast, pray to whoever they ask you to 

Stay away from the waters found in broken cups and homes 

I can’t believe I used to pray with fantasy 

I can’t believe now I pray for the fantasy to seem real 

I, a fly amongst it all, can’t believe it anymore

Please, don’t ever wake up