he stands at the top of the stairway
and demands in a testosterone rage
that I tell him where I’ve hidden
his laundered shirts, blue and beige.

he’s been so worrisome lately
to his dad, and me, his mom.
driving recklessly on nearby streets,
slamming home at three a.m.

so i say to him, “Just go away
and take care of yourself.”
and I wonder what I did so wrong;
he was raised with common sense.

so he moved that very weekend
to a friend’s house ‘cross the town
and I never went to see him there
but I wished that he’d come home.

by twenty-two he mellowed,
i saw him driving down our street.
he said he’d bring his friends home
for “a decent meal to eat.”

I met them at the doorway
I didn’t know what to think
But my son, he smiled and hugged me
and he kissed me on my cheek.

“i’m sorry that it’s been so long,
that I did not call for help,
but I had to sort stuff in my mind
and plan my life myself.”

And I knew my son, he’d grown much,
more wise and yet still sweet.
and I welcomed him with open arms.
and pains in my heart, they ceased.