A Haitian Boy Sits on the Cover of the Sunday Paper

Scrawny, dark, shirtless,

He bows his fragile head beneath the print of pot and primaries,  

Thumbing the oval scar on his chest.

 

Born with a hole in his heart,

American surgeons and ER officials

housed him and his mother

in their stucco mini mansions where

He played Wii with their children

wore new clothes

and gained ten measly pounds on pizza and corn dogs

before going under the knife.

 

There he was, pitching at the River Cat’s game

burping broken English into the microphone

for show, to a cheering crowd all patting their

hearts in gratitude

beneath a Pepsi banner.

 

After the gubernatorial gossip and vague panics

of aging infrastructure,

the story opens into surreal centerfold shots  

of the skeletal mascot peering frankly from behind an oxygen mask

or waving emphatically from the plastic window

of a child’s life-size race car,

or dwarfed by the towering ceiling of his doctor’s living room,

decorated in gold frames and Persian rugs.

When they send him home again
his mother begs the social workers
if they could stay
so, the Army donates a tent
for housing
and photographers follow him home

© Jennifer Chaussee

 

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Author's Note

Tips on how to end this poem would be most helpful.