A poem about an odd filial realtionship

A BOY AND A STICK

He pokes dead
things with a stick
as he hikes through
streets and fields.
None of them
resurrect or complain.
Only flies
or a crow seem
annoyed.
It assures him that
there is an end
to things.
Tells him that not
everyone lies about
their status.

Of course, his mother
would be upset if
she knew.
Not that it was
unsanitary. But that
she couldn’t fix it.
Make them live again.

She fixes everything.
Or tries to, anyway.
She could build new
plans out of the ruins
of the old quicker
than Ernie could say -
Crap, that’s a bust!

The stick he uses
is an old hickory
switch that his
father had waved
to threaten him,
when he was still around.
No bad memories
there. After all,
a man must retain
some sentimental relics
if he is to live
at all.

The stick is now
a probe.
Not a prod. Since
the old man passed.
The argument of danger
only applies to those
who live in relative
safety.

Still, it would
have been fun
to jab the old
guy once before
they buried him.
And see if mother
could fix him.