Stepson

Hole-punched walls,
hinges without doors,
trashed yard --
a house of cards shifts
nervously on its foundation.

Inside, careless hands mangle
treasures I hoped to share,
ripped, soiled, shattered,
tossed upon the heap.
I hide whatever I can.

I hear the wisdom now
in minimalist chidings,
"eschew material things,
hold no object dear,
nor dread its loss."

His sister cowers in
a home become jail,
bruised stomach,
lump-swollen head
her brother's gifts.

Police arrived yesterday,
enforced assault charges,
reining him in at last,
defiant glare melting
in a flow of tears.

Stabbed with fatherhood,
what fleeting peace
remains in my heart
dissolves in acid...

Scott Speck
1997