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Homeless

This poem describes a mother's relationship with her son who is now homeless. She puts money in his bank account and stores his clothes, pretending he is away at school to avoid the reality of his situation. At night, she dreams of him becoming successful. During the day, she drives around the city hoping to catch a glimpse of him. When she sees him riding his bike wildly, avoided by others, she understands he has fully embraced living on the streets, outside of her care and hopes for him.

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610 views1 page

Homeless

This poem describes a mother's relationship with her son who is now homeless. She puts money in his bank account and stores his clothes, pretending he is away at school to avoid the reality of his situation. At night, she dreams of him becoming successful. During the day, she drives around the city hoping to catch a glimpse of him. When she sees him riding his bike wildly, avoided by others, she understands he has fully embraced living on the streets, outside of her care and hopes for him.

Uploaded by

ShelleyMaeSilaganMartos
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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Homeless

Related Poem Content Details


BY JULIET KONO
My son lives on the streets.
We dont see each other much.
Like a mother who puts white lilies
on the headstone of a dead child,
I put money into his bank account,
clothes into E-Z Access storage
and pretend hes far away
at a boarding school, or in a foreign country.
Nights, I dream fairy tales about him.
I dream he becomes a prince,
scholar or warrior who rescues me
from sorrow, the way he rescued me
when he was a child and said,
Mommy, dont cry, and brought tea
into the room of his fathers acrimony
brave, standing tall in the forest
fire of his fathers scorn. I wake
to the empty sound of wind in the trees.
He says he wants to live with me.
I say I cant live with him
boy whose words crash like branches in a rain storm.
Nothing can hold him in,
the walls of a house too thin.
Back home, I had seen
the study-hard-so-you-dont-become-like-them
street bums on Mamo Street,
and hes like them.
These days, in order to catch a glimpse of him,
I circle the city. One day,
I see him on his bike.
People give him wide berth,
the same way birds avoid power lines,
oncoming cars or trees.
I park on a side street.
Wild-eyed, he flies the block
as if in a holding pattern.
Not of my body, not of my hopes,
he homes in on what cant be given or taken away.

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