Santino

It would be rude to
Ask his mother (running to market for syringes)
Ask if he was crooked coming out
A broken bambino, was he?

Santino and his mother
From their makeshift hut of crates
And unwanted soiled baby blankets
Stab themselves between the toes

While the Asians pass through
In their Lexus's and glittering Samsungs
As indifferent as the heroine
That Santino and his mother find
(Veins like fingers rivers lightning)

She's sensitive about everything,
Watch what you say...
It seems like love, a son and his enabler
Or vice verses all the world
A rotten oyster.

I dare not ask his mother
Which came first
(The chicken or the egg?)
Was he a crack baby, her good boy, santino...
Or was she?

Watch your mouth! She's yelling
At foodies parking their cars
With her eyes closed, walking about the lot
He's a good kid, forever her bambino

I now understand selfishness
How deformed came the world to Santino...

Author's Note

Two indigents mother and son who pan handle near my apt. The son is malformed, and skeletal skinny. Both are as decent as most in a metropolis as mine, but I try not to get to know too much, and I only write what I observe, no judgements no shame. Even those that create shock by their damage are entwined in the big beautiful poetry that's life.

Reviews

[flaneur]

I like this. Private lives in a public setting. In the family, but still an outsider in some ways. The family is also inside society and on the fringe of it. A million lives, wainscotting. Where do we fit in? The baggage we clutch, foreign yet familiar. Are we really in control or just white-knuckling the ride?

[Butch Decatoria]

And also they are real individuals in my city neighborhood, a mother and son slamming black in our Chinatown (if you can call it that in Vegas). TY for reading.

[Einstein Noodle]

the tragedy and need for compassion are the things that spring to mind right away ..the selfishness of addictions are like Siamese twins ... they grow together and must leave together ... i am a retired RN working in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit and crack babies just tear your heart out ..they are innocent .. and the mother's helpless in addiction and lack of funds .. so another very vicious cycle plays out over and over ..so sad ...so very very sad ..your poem puts me there in the streets ..in the parking lot ..shooting those veins .. its just too real ..
E.