Hypesthesia: (Traced with a Nine)

Hypesthesia: (Traced with a Nine)

Last night in blue light's wash and siren's wail,

they traced a boy in chalk down on my street,

with thick, white lines of dust on gray concrete,

boxed in between the hydrant and the mail.

His mother, in her slippers, roared and screamed

up at the God she'd prayed to yesterday

to watch him while she went to earn her pay;

to spare him from the fate she'd feared and dreamed.

He'd hopscotched down this street-- his mother beamed

to see her boy so lively in his play.

But hopscotch chalk will run in summer rains.

Where once the boy would play, he stood and schemed.

He traded sun-lit games for dark night's sway,

and numbers traced in chalk for golden chains.

His pleading mother cried, "Where did I fail?"

Her boy, traced with a nine, there at her feet--

her baby boy, her little man, so sweet.

"Stay home tonight," she'd begged to no avail.

For prayers and pleas are air, and what remains

is dust and chalk and silence for her pains.