He carries the giant ball
of anxiety in the minefield

of his belly, clutches it

with itchy fingers,
picks at the pinpricks

of anger and confusion.
Who can leave who?

For what reason?

For how long?

Why?

He pretends to be Spider-man.

He buries the questions

inside the giant ball,

needing answers,

afraid to ask, unsure

who to ask.  Will there

be a number 5 house?

A Mama’s house?

Where is home?

Pammy’s house?

Will Dada live 

with us ever again?

He tethers the anxiety

to illusions of

normalcy.  Answers

go round and round

just out of reach,

spinning too fast.

He’s not the real Spider-man, you know!

~Pam Patterson © 2004~